


the one that's a little bit party of five

by kellifer_fic



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, M/M, Minor Violence, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 50,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellifer_fic/pseuds/kellifer_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does a casual three-sixty and catches the gaze of a glowering werewolf with thick eyebrows and a strong jaw. The guy has artful stubble going on and he looks like he's pissed off at the room, but especially at Stiles and Stiles can roll with that. Lydia wouldn't have called attention to him if he hadn't been Stiles' type.</p><p>His sister is good like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is now complete - thanks for taking this journey with me!

"Tall, dark and dangerous checking you out, three o'clock," Lydia says, swiping the crumpled twenty off Stiles' drinks tray and tucking it into her bra. 

"My three o'clock, or yours?" Stiles asks, making a slapping motion at her hand when she snags the ten as well. He doesn't actually connect, because he's not suicidal.

"Behind you, dumbass," Lydia says with an eye roll and swishes away. Stiles takes a beat to lean a hip on the bar, makes like he's waiting for an order and scans the room while he waits. He's been feeling eyes on him for the last hour or so but that's pretty natural given he's _supposed_ to have people looking at him, that's what he's paid for. This feels different though, there's a weight to it, but Stiles hadn't wanted to be obvious.

He does a casual three-sixty and catches the gaze of a glowering werewolf with thick eyebrows and a strong jaw. The guy has artful stubble going on and he looks like he's pissed off at the room, but especially at Stiles and Stiles can roll with that. Lydia wouldn't have called attention to him if he hadn't been Stiles' type.

His sister is good like that.

"I'm not covering for you this time," Lydia says, circling back to the bar and slicing neatly through any fond thoughts he'd just been having about her. "Ahab catches you fucking in the bathroom again you're out and we're still short on the gas bill."

"I wasn't going to _do_ anything," Stiles says, but he stretches while he says it. The shirt they make him wear at the Lone Wolf is too tight and too short. It means he gets better tips and he plays it up when there's a whale on the horizon. Lone Wolf is in the sketchy part of the city, a little dank corner known by the locals as the Shingles, and most of the Lone Wolf patrons are the more affluent members of the supernatural community wanting to feel a little more dangerous.

It's all an illusion and it's pretty hilarious. Ahab, the owner, intentionally plays up the seediness, over charges on watered down drinks and does a brisk trade in the more illegal fare that the supernatural crowd prefers. He also only hires hot cocktail waiters which is lucky for Stiles and Lydia who happen to have been blessed, genetically.

"Some of us more than others," Lydia always says.

"We shared a womb, you can't claim to be hotter than me. We're the same."

"We're fraternal, ugh."

Ahab also looks the other way if said waiters decide to trade in other kinds of illegal merchandise but while Stiles and Lydia don't do that, they're more than willing to flirt and make people _think_ they might be willing to if it gets the tips flowing.

They have a few hungry mouths to feed.

"Take his order. No funny business," Lydia instructs with her eyes narrowed.

"I can't help that, I'm naturally funny," Stiles says, moonwalking away from her with his tray balanced on his fingertips. It would've been awesome if he hadn't caught a stool with his heel and had to fumble to save it and not end up on his ass.

"Suave," Lydia says, making a show of giving him a slow clap and Stiles turns away from her smirking face and back to his target. If he plays his cards right, he could get fifty, maybe a hundred out of the guy.

He sidles up to the guy's table, making sure to put a little more slink in his step and also tilt his chin, baring the side of his throat. Werewolves he can do, and has done on many occasions. He has a bit of a thing, actually. He doesn't touch the guy because werewolves are big on the personal space until they invite you into it but he does brush his hand over the air just above his shoulder.

"Can I get you something?"

The guy blinks, then puts a hand up to his own neck and scratches and it's almost adorably nervous which is a contradiction and a pleasing one. The guy is all leather and hardness and to have this little peek of vulnerability makes Stiles think that he's definitely going to piss off Lydia if the guy is willing.

"You got anything on tap with wolfsbane?" the guy asks, his eyes drawn to Stiles' hipbones when Stiles puts a hand in his jeans pocket and forces them down a little, his other hand spinning his tray lazily.

"We got WB Stout and also Fanger but they're about as bad as each other. If you're interested, we have a bottle of Knucklebones knocking about, but once we open it, it starts losing potency so you have to buy the bottle."

Stiles hears Ahab in his head when he does stuff like this, his mantra of _upsell, upsell, upsell_. The guy's leather jacket looks like it could've paid for Isaac's braces so Stiles smiles and takes the chance.

"WB's fine," the guy says, disappointingly. Ahab had promised a bonus to whoever could sell the last bottle of Knuckle.

"Sure thing. Pint or pitcher?"

"Pint," the guy says, and suddenly he doesn't look the least bit interested anymore, like Stiles has failed some kind of test. His gaze drifts to the back of the room where the pool tables are, dismissive and Stiles' flirty smile switches to his pleasant customer service one before he nods and heads back to the bar.

"Non-starter," he says to Lydia when he gets back and puts his order in with Warren behind the bar. 

"Really? I could've sworn-"

"Here you go," Warren says, setting Stiles' order on the counter and he smirks. "Losing your charms there, superstar?"

"Shut up," Stiles grumbles.

"Maybe you should get some more sleep. Dark circles aren't really attractive to anyone except Skinners."

"Bite me," Stiles grunts and Warren flashes a fang because he's a vampire and they're pretty much the worst.

Stiles delivers the WB and the guy merely grunts in acknowledgement, not even looking Stiles' way. He retreats, his pride having taken a little knock but forgets about it when he sees Lydia has bailed up Ahab in the corner and she's got her phone out.

He makes a beeline for them because Lydia looks agitated and Ahab has his arms crossed and is shaking his head. "-wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency," she's saying when he draws closer.

"You're got three hours left and I expect you to work 'em," Ahab says.

"Problem?" Stiles asks.

"Stiles, Scott called. Erica has a... fever," Lydia says, which is their code word for one of the kids freaking out and not being able to pull back. Scott can usually handle it, but he's still only sixteen and even though he's a trooper, sometimes the kids just want either him or Lydia and they won't settle without them. Usually he and Lydia try to stagger their work hours as much as possible, but the Lone Wolf is always the most lucrative of their jobs and they hadn't wanted to turn down the shift they'd been scheduled to work together since they were having a tighter than usual month.

"I'll cover for her," Stiles says.

"You can't cover a shift you're already on," Ahab says.

"I'll work back to dawn. I'll lock up, clear the gutters. I know you hate doing that," Stiles wheedles. 

"I'm not paying you to lock up."

"I'll clock out at four like I was supposed to. You get me for three hours for free, it's the same as Lydia's got left."

Ahab looks torn, because he does hate closing but usually doesn't want to pay someone to do it and does it himself. He eventually throws up his hands but then jabs a dirty finger in Stiles' sternum. "This is a once-only deal. You do your shifts like you're supposed to or I'll find someone else," he warns, before pushing back through the crowd.

"You're a saint!" Stiles calls after him, then digs into his jeans pocket and tugs out his keys.

"You take the car," he says.

"But-"

"Lyds, seriously. I can walk home."

"Around _here_?" Lydia says, arching an eyebrow.

"It'll be daylight when I leave. I'll be fine."

Lydia hesitates for only a second more, before she leans forward and kisses him on the cheek, snagging the keys.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles will later blame exhaustion and the knowledge that he only had four hours to sleep before his shift at the motel that caused him to make the decision to cut down an alley three blocks down from the Lone Wolf instead of sticking to the street. He was only thinking of the five minutes it would save him, not having to walk all the way down to Fifth to cut across and shouldn't have been surprised when halfway down the alley; a figure emerges from the shadows of a dumpster to block his path.

The guy looks like he's barely out of his teens and that a stiff wind could knock him over, but he's got the Skinner twitches, clear even from where Stiles is standing so Stiles knows he's in trouble.

Stiles reaches for his back pocket, then inwardly curses when his hand finds nothing but his butt cheek and he belatedly remembers swapping out the family baseball bat she was determined to take to school for his mace so Erica wouldn't get sent home with a letter again. 

Stiles doesn't even bother trying to reason with the guy or talk his way out of the situation. There's no point with someone with the twitches. Stiles just turns back the way he'd come and runs for it, only getting a few steps before what feels like a bundle of fleshy, determined twigs lands on his back with a triumphant screech.

Stiles goes down with a yell, skidding and scraping up his palms and smacking his cheek on the ground. The impact stuns him for a few seconds, long enough for the Skinner to get his hands under Stiles, flip him over and then get a bunch of his hair and smack his head sharply against the ground again. It’s not a killing blow, the Skinner’s not gone quite that much. He wants to make this last.

Stiles still struggles, adrenalin and panic pushing the sick feeling in his head back enough for him to at least _try_ , but the Skinner makes a displeased growl and rabbit-punches him in the stomach. Stiles loses all his air, tries desperately to drag more in but he can't with the Skinner squatting on his chest.

Black spots start dancing at the edges of Stiles' vision and he tries to fight it, knows he's definitely dead if he passes out. He thinks he's reached the hallucination part of oxygen deprivation when he sees a dark figure loom up just behind the Skinner's shoulder, but then the Skinner's weight disappears all at once and there's a screech and a wet-sounding crunch.

Stiles rolls over, trying to get his hands and knees underneath him, trying to crawl away before the Skinner comes back, but then there's hands on his shoulders, pulling him back and Stiles groans and goes, thinking this is it but a voice breaks through the encroaching darkness, yanking him back.

"Hey, Stiles, right?" the guy from the bar, the hot, non-interested guy from the bar, says, turning Stiles over gingerly. His eyebrows are furrowed in concern, eyes fading from a dull, brick red back to a light hazel, maybe green. 

"Where's the-?" Stiles asks muzzily.

"Took care of it," the guy grits out. "Can you stand?"

"I think... maybe... no?" Stiles says.

"Hospital, then."

"No hospital," Stiles groans, pawing at the guy, because there's no way he can afford _that_. He doesn't think anything's broken, and even if he does wake up and in the light of day they do find he's busted something that can't be fixed, he can go to Deaton for cheap. "Home, please. Just home."

"Alright," the guy, Derek he grunts out at some point, huffs out and then he starts patting down Stiles, hands groping for his pockets.

"Oh my god, are you seriously _mugging_ me right now?" Stiles whines, because he thought he'd been having a crappy day before. If this hot guy now rolls him for his tips, it's just going to be the final straw.

"Relax. I'm looking for your wallet."

"That's supposed to reassure me? That's what I figured you were looking for," Stiles says, scrabbling weakly at Derek. His efforts to push him away get a little more desperate when he feels the low tug of his wallet being pulled from the holster under his arm because no way was he going to have it outside his clothes in this area.

"For your ID. You think I'm psychic? How else 'm I supposed to know where you live?"

"You want me to just believe-?" Stiles starts to protest, but then there's a swooping, light sensation and he's suddenly upside down. "Oh god, I don't think that's good for a concu-" Stiles starts to say, but interrupts himself when he throws up, all down Derek's back.

He gets flipped and suddenly he's being held bridal style against Derek's chest, who is not looking particularly impressed. 

"Sorry," he croaks out in a tiny voice, amazed that Derek didn't just drop him and leave him in a puddle of his own misery and blood. He wouldn't blame him. 

"Not your fault," Derek says, voice tight and weary and then they're moving. Derek walks stiffly, careful not to jostle Stiles, probably wary of more spectacular regurgitation. A block down Derek stops and Stiles opens his eyes as much as he can, the left takes a worrying moment to respond, to see Derek awkwardly open the door on a beautiful black car that Stiles is then gently being lowered into the passenger seat of.

A small part of Stiles' brain rises up then, starts to wave a flag of alarm that he's vulnerable, in a werewolf's car and Derek could take him anywhere, do anything with him. 

He must say some, or maybe all of that out loud because Derek snorts from the driver's side and says, "This is the Shingles. It doesn't matter if it's daylight, I could've done anything I liked to you on the _street_ and nobody would have cared."

"Not as reassuring as you might think," Stiles says, then adds, "Um, weren't you wearing a shirt?"

"You threw up on it, remember?"

"Not really," Stiles admits and Derek side-eyes him. Stiles doesn't need to be a mind reader to know what he's thinking. "No hospital," he repeats and Derek shakes his head before turning the key in his car's ignition.

"Always the crazy ones," Derek huffs.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Don't go to sleep," Derek says gruffly.


	3. Chapter 3

"I don't usually bring guys home on the first date," Stiles says muzzily when they pull up outside his house. That's not entirely true, Stiles usually doesn't bring guys home _ever_ , mostly because of the kids but also because he's a little embarrassed about their ramshackle house that has a definite drunken lean to it. 

"Well, technically I'm bringing you home, so there's that," Derek offers when he's crossed to the passenger side and is helping Stiles out after pulling a spare shirt on he'd found in his trunk. Stiles can tell that Derek wants to just lift him again, but Stiles has regained a little of his pride on the car trip and instead only allows Derek to push up under his arm, determined to make it to his door mostly under his own power.

"What happened?" Lydia demands as soon as they're through the door. She'd been sitting on the couch painting her toenails but jumps up immediately and rushes over, wedging herself in on Stiles' other side not currently taken up by Derek so they can get him over to the couch.

"I'm sure it's worse than it looks," Stiles says with a watery attempt at a grin.

Lydia's eyes narrow at Derek and she starts to say, "Did you-?"

"Wasn't him. He was very heroic and gallant." Stiles waves her off as he slumps against the couch cushions. Lydia tucks in beside him, legs underneath her and a concerned hand at his temple. Derek takes a step back and then hovers awkwardly, obviously unsure what else to do.

"You can-" Stiles starts to say, planning to let Derek know he can leave if he wants to, that his hero duty for the day is done and he doesn't need to stick around. Lydia cuts him off though with instructions, sends Derek into the kitchen for a shallow bucket, warm water, the bottle of antiseptic and a wash cloth. Derek looks grateful to have a task and goes. While he's in the kitchen, Scott, Erica and Isaac bundle down the stairs, all stopping short when they see Stiles.

"Are you okay?" Scott blurts, looking worried. Erica wedges herself into the space behind Lydia to stare at Stiles pensively over Lydia's shoulder and Isaac chews on his lip and looks between Stiles and the sounds emanating from the kitchen.

"I'm fine. Just fell down a bunch of stairs," Stiles says, making a lazy loop with one hand. He's pretty clumsy so it's possible, but none of the kids look like they're buying it. "How are you champ?" Stiles deflects, attention on Erica.

"'m fine," Erica says into Lydia's shoulder.

"Just a little anger issue. Scott basically had it under control when I got home," Lydia says, throwing Scott a warm look and he flushes, pleased with the praise.

"Are any of these... yours?" Derek asks, hovering in the kitchen entryway and looking from Scott, to Erica, to Isaac and back to Stiles. His expression turns quickly to hilariously horrified, like the last thing he meant to do was blurt out that question. Lydia snorts from where she's kneeling next to Stiles on the couch and he knows she's rolling her eyes without having to look.

"Naw. Lyds and I have the same dad and then the rest of these guys are from a series of different men we like to call the step-disappointments."

"Step-disappointments?" Derek repeats, raising his eyebrows. When Lydia gestures at him impatiently, he remembers what he's holding and crosses over to her, setting the bucket of what looks like warm, soapy water down on the coffee table gently and stepping away again.

"Yeah, the kind of man that will sneak out in the middle of the night and steal the TV and VCR as a parting gift."

"Wow," Derek says.

"That was Erica and Isaac's dad. He was one of the good ones."

"You and Lydia are human, but..." Derek says and Stiles nods.

"Yep, three werewolves and a werecoyote. We hit the supernatural jackpot," Stiles says, reaching over Lydia to ruffle a hand affectionately through Erica's hair.

"Werecoyote?" Derek asks and Stiles quickly casts over the room, before he leans down and feels under the couch. Sharp teeth close on one of his fingers and Stiles swears and then drags Malia out from her hiding place.

"Werecoyote," Stiles says, swiping dust bunnies from the six-year old’s hair as she squirms. "Malia, what do we say about biting?"

"Only after clear and concise consent," she says, pulling a face. "Can I bite you?"

"I think I've had enough today, tiger," Stiles says, then, "Go bite Derek."

Malia makes an excited yip and Derek actually takes a step backwards but Lydia catches Malia by the back of her sleep shirt before she can reach Derek and orders, "Teeth, get dressed and ready for school." Her attention shifts to Scott, Isaac and Erica. "All of you."

"Can't I stay and help?" Scott presses as Erica and Isaac jostle each other back upstairs, Malia trailing them and snapping at Isaac's heels.

"You've got school too, mister," Stiles says.

"Are you going to work today?" Scott asks. It's an obvious delaying tactic but Stiles sighs and says, "Yes," at the same time that Lydia says, "No."

Stiles turns to her and says, "Just give me the good painkillers from the stash. I'll be fine."

"There's no way you're going to work," Lydia says. "You're going upstairs and to bed. I'll get Deaton to come over to check on you on his way to the clinic."

"I can't miss this shift. It'll be the last one for three months because Claude's nephew will be back," Stiles argues. 

"I could do it," Scott volunteers.

"You have school."

"It's only one day. I can miss one day."

"One day becomes two, becomes a week, becomes a _month_. I'm not having anyone else drop-out in this family," Stiles says sternly.

"If it's only one day-" Derek starts to say and Stiles had almost forgotten he was there. The guy is really good at blending into the shadows.

"I'm sorry, did anyone ask you to stick your snout into my family's business?" Stiles asks rudely and then grimaces. Derek did basically save his life so he deserves to be given a little slack. Derek holds his hands up though and subsides and Stiles turns his attention back to Scott. "Go."

"I can help out. You keep treating me like I'm a kid."

"You _are_ a kid," Stiles says. Now Derek's drawn attention to himself again, Stiles is acutely embarrassed to be doing this in front of him. He doesn't like to be vulnerable and Derek witnessing his family drama is uncomfortably close to Stiles laying himself completely bare.

"So are you, basically," Scott counters. "You're not even twenty-one and you work in a _bar_."

"You're not?" Derek blurts, blinking.

"I'm _twenty_. It's close enough," Stiles says, waving a dismissive hand. "Scott, seriously. My head hurts, Lydia keeps jabbing me and it stings like a mother so can you just go to school today and we can have this argument tomorrow?"

"Fine," Scott grumbles and stomps up the stairs. There's a thump from above and Isaac squawks.

"Are you really twenty?" Derek asks, looking dubious. 

"Yes," Lydia answers for them. "Scott is sixteen, Isaac and Erica are fourteen and Malia's six. Now you've taken a census."

"Lyds," Stiles says gently and she gives him an exasperated glare, smacks a cut she'd just put a plaster on to make him yelp and gets up to gather the supplies together and move back into the kitchen.

"She doesn't like me at all, does she?" Derek says, motioning at the kitchen.

"Oh no, that's just Lydia being neutral. You wait until she's made up her mind one way or the other. You'll definitely know it."

"Saving her brother doesn't buy me any credit in the positive column?"

"A little," Stiles allows. "It's nothing to do with you. I have a habit of making very poor choices and she's just gotten used to erring on the side of caution. She says I'm my mom, down to the bone."

"Where is your mom?" Derek asks, looking around like he's expecting her to pop out at him at any moment.

"She died, right after Malia was born," Stiles says.

"Right after... when you were fourteen?" Derek asks, his eyebrows climbing. "When did you start looking after your siblings?"

"About then. I knew a guy, got fake IDs for me and Lyds and we started working."

"How is that even possible?"

"Well, technically, on paper, we have a grandmother who lives with us."

"And in reality?"

"She sends us postcards from Mexico." Stiles shrugs and then winces when he forgets that his face is a bit of a mess and rubs his nose without being careful. "It's more than what the step-disappointments do."

"What about your dad?"

Stiles shrugs again. "We don't know who he is. Mom never wanted to talk about him and considering Claudia's track record, I'm figuring he was the biggest disappointment of them all and we're better off not knowing."

Derek glances at his watch, makes a face and motions at the door. "I'd better take off," he says, sounding apologetic.

Stiles nods, gets up very carefully and feels pretty proud of himself that he doesn't either collapse right back down or throw up again. He's making progress. "Well, it was nice-" he starts to say, meaning to finish off with _knowing you_ because he expects this to be the last time he ever sees Derek.

Derek surprises him though by blurting, "You want to have dinner tonight?"

Stiles fish-mouths at Derek for a moment. "Uh, you don't know many humans, do you?" he says and when Derek gives him a puzzled look, Stiles gestures at his face. "This is only gonna look worse later."

"Oh, right. Of course. Uh, later in the week then?"

"I don't think so," Stiles says, starting to herd Derek out the door. He gets him nearly all the way to the street outside before Derek turns around.

"Why not?"

"I get it, I do. Guys get wind of the whole kids and slanty shanty thing and either run for the hills or feel like they've gotta save me. I don't need saving."

"I'm not trying to save you."

"You have a hero complex and I'm a tragic circumstance."

"That's not why I'm asking you to dinner."

"It's why they _all_ ask me to dinner."

"You have a pretty screwed up vision of the world."

"I'm working from empirical evidence," Stiles says. He notices his neighbour, Boyd, coming down his own porch steps and he holds up a hand in greeting. Boyd owns a garage and is a godsend because he's willing to look after Malia when they don't have anyone else available and he fixes Stiles' crappy jeep in trade for Lydia's cupcakes and brownies.

"You okay there, Stilinski?" Boyd asks, brow furrowed in concern, most likely taking in the way Stiles is banged up, how he's having to hold onto his front fence for stability and the presence of Derek, much more dangerous looking in the daylight.

"All good," Stiles says and gives Boyd a thumbs up. 

Boyd doesn't look convinced and keeps throwing glances at them all the way to his truck.

"Give me your phone," Derek says, holding out his hand.

"Trying to mug me again?"

"Just," Derek makes an impatient motion and Stiles isn't sure why, but he digs his phone out of his front pocket, thankfully not smashed after the morning's antics. "I want to call and see how you are. Maybe ask you out again when you're not suffering from multiple hits to the head."

"Persistence is not sexy," Stiles says. "Despite what romcoms may tell you."

Derek smiles down at the phone as he uses it to send himself a text so he has Stiles' number and dammit, but that _is_ sexy, worse luck. 

Stiles is still grinning when he gets back inside to find Scott standing in the middle of the living room, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder and a pile of cash in his hand. "Where'd that come from?" Stiles asks with a sinking feeling.

Scott hands it over silently and it's five hundred dollars in a mix of twenties and fifties with a thick red rubbed band around it. There's a piece of paper tucked underneath and Stiles plucks it free and unfolds it.

_Don't go to work today - D_

Stiles crumples the piece of paper in his fist and yells upstairs for the rest of the kids, quietly fuming.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles sticks the money in an envelope, then sticks that in the bookcase, out of sight and out of mind. He meanly tucks it next to a copy of _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time_ and smiles in a self-satisfied way at his own wit, even if no one will ever know. It’s too tempting to use it, is the problem. If it were just Stiles by himself giving it back wouldn’t even be a debate, but it would be too easy to justify using it for the benefit of the kids and that there is a slippery slope.

It’s even harder not to dig it back out again when Deaton visits and in no uncertain terms tells Stiles that he’s not to even think about doing his shift at the motel. “The Firestick Motel right?” Deaton hazards and at Stiles’ nod, he gives him a stern look and says, “There is no way you are going anywhere near that place with open wounds.”

Stiles kicks around the house grumpily. It’s the first real day he’s had off with no kids underfoot in longer than he can remember. He can’t sleep, irritation buzzing under his skin at Derek but he’d tried Derek’s number and it had gone to voicemail and he didn’t want to leave this kind of rant in a message.

Stiles does laundry, makes a half-hearted attempt to clean the kitchen and then takes one of the pills Deaton had left him when his face starts aching badly. He goes back into the living room, takes the envelope out of its hiding place and puts it back. He goes back to the kitchen to stare at the gas bill tacked to the fridge with a penguin magnet, the money for it, not enough yet, wedged underneath. Below the bill is a picture Malia had drawn at school of their house, she even got the lean right. Outside it stand a string of stick people all holding overly large balloon hands.

Stiles curses, goes upstairs to get his jacket and a pair of heavy duty gloves because Claude never thinks to supply them and shoots a quick text to Claude, telling him he’s going to make it after all and not to give his shift away if he hasn’t already. He gets a text the moment he walks out the door and Stiles swallows, expecting it to be Claude telling him he’s too late, but it’s Lydia.

_YOU’D BETTER STILL BE AT HOME >:/_

Stiles grimaces. He’s long suspected that Lydia has the tiniest psychic twinkle, even if he would never tell Lydia that to her face. 

_Absolutely. Daytime television is as dire as expected_

Stiles moves to tuck his phone away but he gets another text before he can.

_THEN WHY DID MRS. HALLINGSWORTH CALL ME TO TELL ME YOU’RE LEAVING THE HOUSE??_

Stiles looks up and the curtains on the front window of the house across the street quickly drop shut. Stiles cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Traitor!” at the house.

His phone rings, a picture of Lydia flipping him off flashing and Stiles knows he’s going to pay for it later when he just shoves his phone back in his pocket and ignores it.

Derek calls at about two in the afternoon when Stiles is pushing a giant cart of used towels down to the laundry underneath the motel. He kicks the brake on and then digs his phone out.

"You can’t prepay me for sex," Stiles snaps. 

There’s a beat of silence and then Derek says very slowly, “That’s not what that was.”

"Oh really? You didn’t think I would feel _obligated_ to say yes to a date with you when you called by giving me five hundred dollars?”

"Does a date with you always mean sex?" Derek asks.

"Oh don’t sound so judgmental. You’re the one paying for it, buddy."

"I’m not… I just wanted you to take the day off because you’d just been beaten to a pulp by a Skinner. That’s as far as that thought process went, I swear," Derek says, sounding frustrated.

"I can’t just think about _today_. I have to think about the next time Claude needs someone to fill in for the nephew he doesn’t have to pay triple.”

"You say that like you don’t think I understand the concept of planning for the future."

"Well, you seem more like an instant gratification type to me," Stiles says snidely. 

"It was a no strings attached gift," Derek presses and Stiles takes the phone away from his mouth for a moment to scream silently and shake his fists at the air.

"There’s no such thing," Stiles says when he’s able to calm himself enough to put the phone back to his mouth. 

"I trust that you’d find a better use for it than I would," Derek says.

"You don’t _know_ me. I could have a gambling problem. I could be on my way to Vegas right now, kids be damned.”

"You’re at the motel, working," Derek says, his tone a statement of fact and not a question.

"Are you here? Are you _spying_ on me?”

"I don’t have to be. Have dinner with me tomorrow."

"Why do you want to?"

"I want to get to know you."

"I don’t know why. I’m basically an asshole."

"I like assholes," Derek says without missing a beat, sounding infuriatingly pleased with himself.

"You can’t charm me with _that’s what she said_ levels of wit,” Stiles says, irked because basically it’s working, although he would never admit it in a million years.

"I know a really good-"

"Come over tonight," Stiles interrupts Derek to say. "Before you get excited, it’s just so I can give you the money back."

"You’ll be home?"

"Someone will be."

"Stiles."

"That’s all you’re going to get right now," Stiles says and hangs up.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles gets home late from the motel and the house is quiet, which always worries him. He passes through the empty living room, equally empty kitchen and then goes upstairs. Lydia’s in her bedroom, asleep with a mask on and Stiles smacks the back of her calf to wake her up.

"What the hell?" she screeches, flipping over and kicking him with a socked foot.  


"Lydia, where are the children?" Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.

Lydia frowns at him, pushes up from the bed and sticks her head out into the hall. Her frown gets deeper when she notices the silence. Stiles watches her from the bed as she turns slowly back around and puts her index finger in her mouth, teeth ripping at the nail, which is always her tell when she’s worried.

Before they can both truly panic, the sound of the front door opening and closing and voices filter up to them. Stiles rolls his eyes and stands while Lydia grumbles and pitches herself back onto the bed, tugging her sleep mask back on. “Call me when there’s a _real_ emergency,” she scoffs, kicking out at him again but missing this time.

Stiles goes back downstairs to see the kids all clustered together, tugging off hats and coats. Scott is carefully helping Malia out of her layers and for a moment he doesn’t see Derek because he’s hunkered down unlacing her boots. When Derek stands though, looking windswept and delicious, Stiles pauses on the stairs.

"What the actual fuck?" Stiles demands.

"Derek took us for Chinese, to the _Golden Dragon_ ,” Isaac enthuses. He’s holding a bag of takeout containers and he waggles them triumphantly. “They let us bring the food home we couldn’t eat.”

"You kidnapped my kids?" Stiles says, glaring at Derek.

Derek snorts and shakes his head. “It’s not kidnapping if I bring them back.”

"Lydia was asleep upstairs so I’m pretty sure you didn’t ask her."

"He asked _us_ ,” Scott says sourly. “We wanted to go.”

"Kitchen, then upstairs to bed, all of you," Stiles snaps, throwing his arm out. There’s grumbling, but they go, leaving Derek and Stiles alone. "This is not okay."

"I came over because you asked me to. I just took them out while we were waiting for you to get home."

"Fine," Stiles snarls, thumps the rest of the way down the stairs and moves across to the bookcase, plucking the envelope of money out. He shoves it at Derek and Derek takes it, eyebrows furrowed and a wrinkle of disapproval between them.

"What’s your problem?" Derek asks, sounding like he doesn’t genuinely know.

"My _problem_? You seriously think this is going to work?”

"What?"

"Getting to me through the _kids_?” Stiles hisses. He lives in a house full of weres so they can all probably hear what he’s saying, even if he whispers, but it still makes him feel better to have the illusion of privacy for this talk. The others are being overly loud in the kitchen, rustling around and putting food in the fridge. They sound cheerful and it makes Stiles crazy.

"I’m not trying to get to you Stiles, Jesus," Derek says, flailing his hands in a helpless gesture. He’s still holding the envelope of money and it crumples when he makes frustrated fists with his hands. 

"What possible other reason could you have to buy them dinner?" Stiles asks and Derek looks astounded.

"I came over, they looked hungry. That’s it. I’m not a villain twirling my mustache and picturing what train tracks I can tie you to," Derek says, throwing the now crumpled envelope of money down on the coffee table. Stiles picks it up immediately and shoves it back at him. 

"You have no business taking them anywhere. Do you know how worried I was when I came home and they weren’t home?"

"Like you said, you were out and Lydia was asleep," Derek says and Stiles narrows his eyes and takes a step towards him.

"Oh my god, are you one of _those_?” he snarls.

"One of what?"

"You don’t believe me and Lyds can raise them because we’re human? Is that what this is about?"

"Oh my god, _no_ ,” Derek says, turning around in a circle like he can’t think of any other way to illustrate his frustration, like he wants to escape but at the same time he he can’t bring himself to leave.

"Bed!" Stiles roars over Derek’s shoulder because Scott, Isaac, Erica and Malia are all clustered in the kitchen entryway, watching them avidly. Erica’s holding Malia in her arms and Malia has one of Erica’s braids in her mouth, chewing.

"What is going on?" Lydia complains from the top of the stairs. She’s got her sleep mask pushed on top of her head and a deep pillow crease in her cheek.

"Derek wants to steal our kids."

” _What_?” Derek chokes out.

"Oh don’t look at me like that," Stiles says to Lydia, ignoring Derek’s indignation and the fact that he’s flushed a bright, enticing red. "It’s not completely impossible."

"If anything, he was pumping us for information," Scott pipes up from the kitchen and when Derek smacks a hand over his face, he adds, "Sorry dude, but it’s true."

"What information?" Stiles demands.

"What you like, what kind of guys you normally see, how to remove the stick from your butt, I’m assuming so he can replace it with-" 

"Scott!" Stiles splutters and Scott grins at him, enjoying this all way too much. 

"He was trying to be subtle, but it was not subtle,” Erica adds, equally entertained and now Derek’s blush has made it all the way to his ears and down his neck. 

"C’mon, bed now," Lydia says, coming the rest of the way down the stairs so she can herd the kids back up them. They go, complaining the whole way and Stiles starts towards the front door, motioning Derek to follow him.

Derek follows silently, probably rendered speechless with mortification. When they’re back on the street in front of Derek’s car, he turns to Stiles and says contritely, “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

"I’m not going to say it’s alright," Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his chin up. He’s never going to look like a classic tough guy like Derek does, but he can manage imposing when he wants to. 

"You were right about one thing," Derek offers.

"Oh yes?" Stiles says. "Tell me, I’m _fascinated_.”

"You do look worse now."

This surprises a laugh out of Stiles and he punches Derek in the shoulder. “Oh my god, shut up,” he says, angry at being so amused. Derek’s got this look he gets when he makes a joke, like a kid with a cupcake that’s basically fifty percent frosting and Stiles _does not want to know that_.

"I think you lied when you said Lydia would be the hard one to win over."

"I’m more of a quick hookup kinda guy. I don’t really know what to do with… whatever it is you’re trying to do here."

"I don’t believe that at all," Derek says, smiling gently and risking a step into Stiles’ space. Stiles leans back and eyes him, wary.

"You’re not as charming as you think you are."

"I think I’m exactly that charming," Derek says, leaning in and Stiles puts a hand up and shoves him face away.

"Ugh," Stiles grunts out feelingly and slips back through his front gate, only turning when he has that physical barrier between them. "We’re like a giant, and I mean _giant_ mess. It might look all cute and challenging from where you’re standing now but believe me, the cute doesn’t last.”

"Maybe you should let me make my own mind up," Derek says, resting his hands on the fence and tugging. It waggles alarmingly and Derek removes his hands so fast that Stiles has to laugh again. 

"See, even my front fence is a disaster."

"It just needs a better foundation."

"Wow, that was seriously cheesy," Stiles says, giving Derek a slow clap. 

"Dinner, please? I can wait until you look less like a bruised banana."

"Pick me up from the Lone Wolf after my shift Wednesday morning," Stiles finally relents. "You can buy me breakfast. No funny business."

Derek holds up his hands and steps away, grinning. It’s probably a wise choice that he doesn’t say anything else, just retreats to his car. 

"You’re going to end up with that thing stripped around here," Stiles calls after him.

"Not with my license plate," Derek throws over his shoulder and Stiles leans sideways so he can see what Derek means.

"What the hell is a _HALE_?” he yells, but it’s too late, Derek having peeled away in a screech of tires and a dorky wave out of his sunroof.


	6. Chapter 6

Scott is sitting on Stiles' bed when he drags himself back upstairs. Stiles is feeling every scrape and bruise and all he wants to do is face-plant and sleep for about thirty-six hours but apparently that's not on the cards.

"What's up, buttercup?" Stiles asks tiredly, going to his dresser to pull out a pair of pajama pants to sleep in and shucking the shirt he'd worn to the motel. He holds it in hand for a moment, thinking maybe it would be better to burn the thing. The Firestick has some _interesting_ clientele with equally _interesting_ ways of messing up a room. Stiles is thinking about going onto craigslist and seeing if he can source a gas mask if he ever manages to pick up another shift.

Maybe a Hello Kitty one, just for funsies.

"You like him, don't you?" Scott asks and it seems that this talk isn't about Scott at all. Stiles sighs as he kicks out of his jeans and tugs his pajamas on, falling onto the bed and mostly on top of Scott right after who lets out a small _oof_ but doesn't push Stiles off as roughly as he normally would.

Stiles must really look terrible. 

"Who?" Stiles asks, playing dumb.

He doesn't need to see the eye roll to know it happens. " _Derek_ ," Scott clarifies, sounding exasperated.

"Sure," Stiles allows, non-committal.

"You do, you like him."

Stiles props himself up on one hand. Scott has his hoodie pulled up so Stiles can only see the tip of his nose the way they're laying, so he reaches out and pushes some of the material away from Scott's face. "What does it matter?" he asks which might sound dismissive, but his tone is gentle.

"Lydia's got Jackson," Scott starts and at Stiles' rude noise Scott makes a face at him. "You just haven't really... had anyone, for a while."

"Oh, I've _had_ people," Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows.

"Gross."

"You wanted to be an adult. I'm talking to you like an adult."

"There's a line," Scott says. 

"If that line is good taste, I lost sight of that one long ago."

"Why are you angry at him when he's just trying to be nice to you?"

"People aren't nice."

"Some are."

"Not without a reason. Not to me," Stiles amends. It sounds horribly jaded, even to Stiles' own ears, but Scott doesn't look deterred in the least. He sits up, knees pressing into Stiles' side and looks down at him, serious.

"Let someone in, just this once. The way he looked when he was asking about you-"

"Scott, it's not that simple. I can't... _we_ can't afford that. I don't want you guys getting attached to him if he's just going to disappoint you."

"If he's just going to disappoint _you_ , you mean," Scott counters.

"Probably," Stiles allows. "Just, what if he does stick around a couple of months, even a year and we get used to him? Malia's too young to... hell, all of you are too young to get let down like that again."

"Lydia doesn't seem to worry about that with Jackson," Scott says, screwing up his face.

"That's because Jackson is like a venereal disease. Just when you think he's gone, he comes raging back. We're never going to get rid of him."

"Why do you hate him so much?"

"I don't trust him not to hurt her. I don't trust anyone outside of this family. Maybe Boyd and Deaton if I'm pressed but even of them I'm dubious," Stiles says.

"Are you sure you and Lydia are twins? You're pretty different."

"She got all the faith in humanity and the strawberry blonde hair," Stiles agrees. He reaches up to hook an arm around Scott's neck and tugs him down to plant a big, wet kiss on his cheek. Scott squeaks in protest, but he's smiling when he's released, even if he makes a big show of wiping the kiss off. "Go to bed."

"Fine," Scott huffs and pushes off the bed. He turns back when he's at Stiles' door and Stiles braces himself for what Scott could possibly want to add, but it's just, "If you want any of the Chinese, you should probably get down to the kitchen now. I give Isaac and Erica about an hour before they're back in the fridge."

"Thanks, kiddo," Stiles says.

*

Stiles is half, maybe even sixty-five percent expecting Derek not to show up at four in the morning to pick him up. Lydia had made him promise to call so she come and get him if that happened considering how he hadn't made it home in one piece last time he tried to walk from the bar. Stiles has his phone in hand before he even gets out of the Lone Wolf's doors; he's eighty-seven percent sure Derek won't be there, and promptly drops the phone in the gutter in surprise when he gets honked at as soon as he's outside.

"Crap," Stiles swears, hunkering down to retrieve the phone and look dismally at the cracked screen. A shadow falls over him where he's still hovering in the street on the balls on his feet and Stiles tenses, but it's just Derek reaching past him and plucking the phone out of his hands.

"I am _so_ sorry," Derek says, grimacing. 

"It's fine," Stiles says, trying to take the phone back but Derek holds it out of his reach.

"No, seriously. This was my fault. I'll replace it."

"It's _fine_ ," Stiles insists, reaching more purposefully for the phone and starting to bristle at how Derek easily holds him off. 

"Let me buy-"

"No!" Stiles snaps, apparently surprising them both with his vehemence. Derek quickly passes the phone back and then holds his hands up in surrender. "Just... stop trying to give me stuff for two seconds, alright?" Stiles sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

"So, you gonna kick my ass if I try to buy breakfast?"

Stiles looks at the phone and then back at Derek, contemplative. "We-ell, I guess it's the least you can do," he relents and Derek looks so plainly relieved that Stiles almost feels bad for getting angry at him again.

Almost.

They bypass the diner Stiles usually hits on his way to work for pre-bar carbs with its faded yellow lighting and sour waitresses and instead Derek drives them to a bright and cheery place that's probably seen the right side of a health inspection more than once. Stiles brushes his fingers over the paper menu that's not even laminated but still looks pristine and then orders pancakes and curly fries, ignoring the look Derek gives him before he gives his own order of a much more mundane Big Breakfast.

Derek flips his coffee cup over when the server comes back with a pot but Stiles waves him off, knowing if he drinks any now he won't sleep till two in the afternoon, if at all. They sit in a silence that's not quite uncomfortable but could tip that way at any moment as Derek sips his coffee and Stiles drums his fingers on the tabletop.

"I don't think I've ever intentionally made a date for four in the morning before," Derek finally says, breaking the quiet. 

"Intentionally?"

"Booty calls notwithstanding."

"Do people still say booty call?" Stiles snorts and Derek huffs into his cup.

"What's the correct term now? I haven't checked my urban dictionary lately."

Stiles spins his own coffee cup in agitated circles for a few moments before he says, "Look, I don't think I ever actually thanked you for saving me the other night."

Derek sits back against the booth's cushion, looking like this was the last thing he was expecting to come out of Stiles. "Oh, that's... you're welcome?"

"I just don't want you to feel any kind of obligation or anything."

"We're back to that again?"

"Seriously. You saved me and I'm grateful, _really_ grateful, but I'm not your responsibility. I know some wolves can-"

"I don't feel responsible for you, Stiles." Derek takes a moment to search Stiles' face and then his expression twists, half amused and half annoyed. "Wait, are you talking about _imprinting_?"

"I don't know," Stiles hedges, eyes on his drumming fingers but Derek reaches across the table to flatten Stiles' hands to the tabletop with his own. 

"You have weres under your roof and you still buy into that baseless internet drivel?"

"They're not really at that age yet. I've done a lot of reading to be prepared for... any eventuality."

"What reading?"

"Mostly forums. Some scientific journals. Some... other books."

"Other books?"

Stiles can feel his cheeks heat up and he tries to duck his face, but Derek grabs his chin and forces his head up. The only good thing is that he's looking less annoyed now. Stiles desperately wishes he could yank his head inside his t-shirt like a turtle into its shell, horribly embarrassed.

"By books you mean supernatural romantic fiction, don't you?" 

"Not all of them are terrible," Stiles defends hotly.

"Yes, Stiles. Yes they are."

"I wanted to have as well-rounded an education-"

" _Education?_ "

"-in all things supernatural as possible. The kids are going to have questions."

"You're going to confuse, and/or terrify them if you give them any answers out of those books."

"We can't go to any of the Pack Planning Centers. The kids need an advocate and neither Lydia nor I qualify."

"I can take them," Derek offers easily and Stiles just stares at him. Their food arrives as Stiles tries to scrape together a response and Derek starts in on his huge plate of food, looking completely unconcerned.

"You can take them," Stiles repeats slowly.

Derek shrugs, cheeks stuffed full like a cartoon chipmunk storing nuts for the winter. "Sure," he gets out, word mangled with food. 

" _You_ can take them?" Stiles says again and this gets Derek tilting his head.

"Ye-es," he says, elongating the word for effect.

"You can-"

"Stiles!" Derek snaps, setting his fork down with a clatter.

"Sorry, my brain just got stuck in a groove or something, what with you offering to be an advocate for my kids and all."

"I don't see what the big deal is," Derek says, reaching across the table to steal a curly fry even though he'd made a disgusted face when Stiles ordered them. Stiles automatically smacks his hand and Derek looks hilariously surprised. 

Stiles is used to defending his food from hungry weres. 

"I think that's most of the problem, that you don't," Stiles says.

"Is this about you thinking I'm trying to get at you through your kids again?" Derek huffs, going back to his own food mulishly.

"Partly."

"What's the other part?"

"I can't have you volunteering to do things, _important_ things, like it's that simple."

"Why not?" Derek asks, sounding supremely frustrated.

"Because I don't want to start relying on you, okay? Do you get that? I _can't_."

"But-"

"No, you don't get to argue with me about this. Not this. I am protecting my kids the best way I know how, and this is part of it. You take them a couple of times, decide it's not as fun as you thought or that you're sick of me or whatever and you drop us. I'm the one who gets left with the cleanup, the disappointment."

"I get the feeling you're trying to protect _you_ here, not them."

"Well, so what if I am? You don't get to decide whether I'm allowed to do that either," Stiles says, sitting back and crossing his arms, suddenly deeply uninterested in his breakfast and this whole pseudo-date. 

"What are you afraid of, exactly?"

"If I knew _exactly_ , I would tell you."

"Your mom didn't leave you, not intentionally," Derek says after a moment, his voice painfully gentle and it makes Stiles see red.

He sits forward, lip curling up. "How dare you even-"

"Sorry," Derek says immediately, pushing his own plate away. "No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." Derek shakes his head, looking rueful and Stiles thinks, there it is, shine's worn off. 

Lydia had once said to him, when they were having a particularly nasty fight right after their mom died and the stress was becoming too much, that he was difficult to love. Stiles has often wondered if that was true, whether it was intentional, his way of curling into himself and shutting out the world. Stiles, just a little hedgehog ball of pain with only his spines showing to the world, his soft belly deep inside, protected.

"I only have to go with them the first couple of times," Derek says and Stiles blinks for a moment, thrown. He'd lost the conversational thread in his anger and he plays it back mentally.

"What?"

"They only need an advocate the first couple of times and then they can start going by themselves, if that's what you're worried about."

"You mean to the Planning Center?"

"All you have to do is trust me long enough to take them two, maybe three times. They can find a sponsor at the Center and then they don't need to bring their advocate."

"Is that true?" Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes. 

"The others are still a little young but Scott's going to have urges, don't make that face, I'm not talking about _those_ urges, that he doesn't understand or can control. He needs to learn to identify an anchor, meditation techniques, that kind of thing."

"Scott's fine. He's the most level-headed kid I know."

"He's hiding it from you," Derek disagrees.

"Buying my kids one meal doesn't mean you know them better than I do."

"No, but being a werewolf means I know another werewolf better," Derek says and despite it being aggravating, Stiles can't argue with the logic.

"You really think he'd be having trouble?" Stiles asks finally, because the one thing that can shove Stiles out of his own head and his own concerns is the needs of his siblings.

"I know he is," Derek says plainly.

"I'll think about it," Stiles relents.

It's six in the morning when they get back to Stiles' place. Derek looks surprised when Stiles asks him in for a coffee and follows Stiles silently inside, like he's worried he'll say the wrong thing and Stiles will change his mind about the invite. Derek trails Stiles through the living room and only risks a curious eyebrow raise when Stiles takes Derek's hand and steers them towards the stairs, tugging him up two, three, four steps. Derek hesitates on the fifth and stops dead on the sixth, looking down at their linked hands.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his thumb rubbing over the vulnerable inner skin of Stiles' wrist.

Stiles tilts a hip and gives Derek his dirtiest grin. He's still wearing his bar clothes so Derek's gaze is immediately drawn to his bared skin and Stiles' grin gets larger as he leans down to nudge at Derek's cheek with his nose. "I'm inviting you in for _coffee_ ," he says, then tugs at Derek again but he might as well be trying to move a mountain.

"No, nope, nu-uh," Derek says after a loaded pause and disentangles their fingers. He's back down at the base of the stairs in an effortless-looking jump that would make a ninja weep with envy, not even making a noise when he lands. Stiles is left gaping down at him, horrendously confused.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Stiles asks, feeling his stomach tighten at the prospect of rejection.

"Not if it's meant to get rid of me."

Stiles pushes a frustrated hand through his hair. "That's not-"

"If you're about to lie to me, then don't even bother," Derek says curtly.

"Fine, whatever," Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest. It radiates defensiveness, he knows it does, but he can't help it. Derek's watching him with all too-knowing eyes. He's lovely in the dawn light, but he also looks tired as he looks up at Stiles. Stiles can't bring himself to uncurl long enough to let it wash away some of his prickliness though, he just can’t. "If you don't want to, that's your business."

"Jesus, Stiles, I _want_ to. If I thought you were serious, that you wouldn't use it to prove yourself right about me, about whatever you've _decided_ I am, then I would be throwing you over my shoulder right now and I wouldn't even bother with the stairs."

"Then what's the problem?" 

"You know how people say werewolves can smell emotions?" At Stiles' nod, Derek shrugs. "That's not exactly accurate, but we learn to read certain signals and you're giving me a giant _do not want_ one."

"I do though," Stiles argues, because he _does_. The problem is he wants a little too much. He wants everything Derek is promising to be and it's terrifying because there's a cliff up ahead, a drop he won't survive and he's just waiting to reach it.

"Okay, fine, it's a do not want right now, then," Derek concedes.

"I don't know what you think you're smelling," Stiles grumbles.

Derek drops his head, and then climbs the stairs until he's standing on the one just below him. Stiles thinks maybe Derek's changed his mind for a moment, but Derek just leans up to press a dry, sweet kiss to the corner of Stiles' mouth, tug Stiles' shirt down to cover his hip bones with what sounds like an aggrieved sigh and retreat.

"I'll see you later, Stiles," he says just before he disappears through the door. 

Stiles is left standing on the stairs by himself, wondering what the hell just happened.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles is woken from a dead sleep at about one in the afternoon by his phone. He blindly slaps at his bedside table until he finds it and tugs it under his blankets, pushing it between his ear and the mattress and groaning, “What, for the love of god, _what_?”

"You have to go to the school. They called," Lydia says.

"What about?"

"Malia bit someone."

"Christ," Stiles sighs and pushes his blankets off. "Can’t you go since clearly you’re already upright and dressed?"

"I’m looking after Deena’s twins, remember? She’s giving me three hundred if I don’t lose either of them and that’s been pretty difficult since they hit the terrible teleportation twos."

"They’re teleporting now? Awesome," Stiles enthuses. 

"Not so awesome. I just had to dig Becky out of a wall. Her spatial awareness isn’t quite where it needs to be yet. Thank god they can only blip about a foot at a time. I can’t risk getting in a car with them, though."

"Fine," Stiles grumbles and pushes the rest of the way out of bed to head to the school. 

"What do we say about biting?" Stiles asks, hunkering down in front of Malia and resting his hands on her tiny knees when he gets there. She’s sitting by herself outside the Vice-Principal’s office, looking tiny and so achingly fragile. 

"Clear and concise consent," Malia repeats dutifully, although her gaze wanders and the word consent comes out as a wobbly whisper.

"So, you haven’t forgotten the rules, then. What happened?"

"Jimmy consented by being a butthead," Malia says, rallying. She crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a determined look so reminiscent of Lydia’s scary best that Stiles has to bite down hard on his lower lip not to laugh. 

"That’s not the way it works," Stiles says when he’s pretty sure he’s got himself under control. "How was Jimmy a butthead?"

Malia plucks at her Iron Man t-shirt for a moment, swings her jean-clad legs. Right before Stiles can prompt her for an answer again, she gives him one. “He said my clothes come from the rubbish bin because we’re poor and have no parents.”

"He what?" Stiles practically growls. 

"I don’t want to dress like Lydia or Erica. It’s too… fussy," Malia says, flipping her small hands. "I don’t mean to get so dirty but…" Malia rubs ineffectually at a mark on the hem of her shirt and then pokes her thumb through a hole in her jeans. Malia’s rough on clothes just like all the other kids, wears straight through them horrifyingly fast, sometimes faster than Stiles can hit up the local Walmart or the dollar stores. It wouldn’t have mattered though; Malia loved this particular outfit and had screamed bloody murder when Stiles had made to throw the t-shirt and jeans in the rag bag. One of the jean’s legs has cartoon wolves cavorting over it that Isaac had drawn when Malia had fallen asleep on the couch.

"You can dress however the hell you want," Stiles says, anger making him uncareful and Malia looks at him with wide eyes at the use of the word _hell_. She hears much worse on a daily basis from the neighborhood kids and her own siblings, but Lydia and Stiles are always really careful so when they tell her to mind her language, she can’t throw their own swearing in their faces.

The Vice-Principal pokes her head out of her office at that moment and frowns at him. “Can I help you?” she asks, looking warily at the way he’s hunched over Malia.

"Oh, hi. I’m Stiles Stilinski. We got a call about Malia," Stiles says, standing and wiping his hands off before he offers one to the woman, her door plate telling him her name is _Vice Principal Moke_.

"We usually require a legal guardian," she says, still frowning and opens a folder, scanning it quickly. "I was expecting a Mrs. Martin?"

"Our grandmother’s eighty-six years old, we only have the one family car and my sister’s using it for work today. I didn’t want to put my grandmother on a city bus just to come here when I’m sure we can sort this out," Stiles says. Moke gives him another dubious once-over before she nods and steps back into her office, indicating he follow her.

Lydia usually handles the school visits and Stiles twists his hands together to stop the nervous drumming they want to do on the chair he’s told to take. He can’t help the feeling that _he’s_ in trouble and ends up chewing on his nails while Moke settles on the other side of her desk and reopens the folder, paging through the contents again.

"We take biting very seriously, especially when it involves a were-child," Moke begins, finally stopping her fussing with her file and folding her hands neatly on top of it instead. 

"Malia’s been really good about that for a long time. She said though that this Jimmy kid-"

"You can imagine how distressed Mr. and Mrs. Temins were to hear that their child had been bitten by a were."

"Well, I’m a little _distressed_ about what their kid said to mine,” Stiles says, trying to hold onto his temper at the blandly unimpressed way Moke is regarding him.

"You can certainly understand their concerns. We had to reassure them that he would not be _infected_ -“

"Hang on a second-"

"-but of course they are going to be having him tested just in case independently and they will expect your family to reimburse them. I took the liberty of providing them with your address so they could bill you."

"He doesn’t need to be _tested_ ,” Stiles says, astounded by the stupidity. “Malia’s clearly not an Alpha and anyone that took even a base level Transformation Science class-“

"That’s an elective," Moke interrupts him to say primly.

"Seriously?" Stiles explodes, throwing up his hands in frustration. 

"If there are any further incidents, we will be recommending Malia be moved to a more appropriate facility."

"We can’t afford a WA school if that’s what you’re implying," Stiles says. "Believe me, if we could, she’d be there already. All our kids would be."

"This meeting is a courtesy only, not a negotiation. Malia is now on probation."

"For how long?"

"That depends. Would you consider a collar?"

"A collar? A _shock_ collar?” Stiles says, disbelieving. “They’re barbaric.”

"They are legal and proven to be an effective teaching tool _and_ also up to the discretion of the school. We are within our rights to make it a requirement of Malia’s continued attendance.”

"Are you making it a requirement?" Stiles asks through gritted teeth.

"The Temins’ agreed to drop the matter if you pay for the testing and also have Malia write a letter of apology."

"Is Jimmy Temins going to be made to write an apology letter to Malia?"

"What for?" Moke says.

"For teasing Malia about her clothes and her-" Stiles spits and Moke interrupts him to say, "It’s hardly the same thing," while looking completely unmoved. She stands, clearly indicating that in her opinion, at least, the meeting is over. 

Stiles rises slowly, hands gripped into fists and stalks out. He’s never felt so angry and so helpless to do anything about it in his life. Malia looks up at him when he gets out of the office, her face stricken and Stiles tries to calm himself because she doesn’t deserve to be bowled over by his emotions.

Stiles takes a few deep, calming breaths and then holds out a hand for her. 

"C’mon, kiddo, let’s get you some ice cream."


	8. Chapter 8

"Where's the Camaro?" Stiles blurts when Derek pulls up in an extremely safe-looking and incredibly out of character Toyota. Stiles is sitting on the porch steps with Scott pressed up against his legs, Isaac and Erica tumbling around the front yard and Malia doing handstands by the fence. To say the kids had been excited about getting to go to the Pack Planning Center would be an understatement.

Scratch that. All of the kids except Scott, who, apart from what had happened with Malia, is the _reason_ Stiles had decided to risk sending them along with Derek.

"Do I really have to go?" Scott whines, tilting his head back so it rests on Stiles' knee and giving him epically tragic puppy eyes.

"What's wrong with the car?" Derek asks at the same time.

"You," Stiles says, tapping Scott between the eyes, "Definitely need to go because this is all your fault."

"But-"

"You have no leg to stand on here. You lost whatever leg you had when Deputy Parrish brought you home last night after you broke into the community pool because you were, and I quote, _feeling a bit hot_." 

Stiles tilts his attention back to Derek and points at him. "And _you_. I can't even begin to tell you what's wrong with this picture," he says, waving a hand that encompasses Derek and the Toyota behind him.

"I couldn't fit everyone into the Camaro," Derek says with a shrug.

"It's like... I mean..." Stiles flails his hands. "Suddenly you're a _soccer wolf_?"

"I borrowed it, alright? I still have the Camaro."

"Thank god," Stiles exhales and then knows he turns a bright, guilty red when Derek flicks an intrigued glance his way.

"Deputy Parrish always finds a reason to come over," Scott grumbles as he pushes up from the porch steps, telegraphing his displeasure with the disgruntled way he stands.

"Oh yeah?" Derek asks, resting his crossed arms on the front fence post.

"He has a crush on Lydia," Stiles says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"That isn't who he has a crush on," Isaac disagrees, standing up and brushing dirt and grass out of his hair from where Erica was holding him down. 

"Oh yeah?" Derek says a little slower, looking less amused.

"Isaac is deluded."

"Isaac heard him ask you to that awards ceremony he's going to next week," Isaac says smarmily. 

" _Isaac_ better shut his face before _Stiles_ shuts it for him," Stiles says, even though it's an empty threat since both Isaac and Erica have been able to benchpress Stiles since they were about ten.

"Let's go if we're going," Derek huffs and Malia, Isaac and Erica all bound enthusiastically over to him, Scott dragging his feet and throwing betrayed glances over his shoulder. Derek waits until the kids are in the car before he turns back and says, "So, did you-?"

"I told him no, geez," Stiles says, throwing his hands up. "Not that it's any of your business."

Derek gives him a satisfied little grin before he gets back in his car and peels away, Isaac making blowfish at Stiles on the back window as they disappear around the corner at the end of the block.

Stiles skirts the side of the house, picking up dropped toys and rubber balls as he goes until he's behind his house. He surveys their scrap of a backyard, sighs and sets his armload down long enough to push his fists into the small of his back and groan. 

It's a blissfully peaceful day, which is why he hears the tinkle of broken glass from the front of the house so clearly.

Stiles takes the stairs silently and eases in through the back door, picking up the baseball bat that's always set next to the bathroom just inside. He hears voices, two males by the sounds of it and they're not trying to be quiet. 

They haven't seen him yet, even though it's a straight shot from the front door through to the kitchen view-wise. They look incredibly sketchy, wearing rough-looking jackets and boots. They're pale and thin, deep purple bruising under their eyes apparent even from where Stiles is standing and he groans inwardly.

Vampires.

Thankfully it's daylight and vampires lose most of their strength and heightened senses when the sun's up. They don't burst into flames like the movies would have most mundanes believe, worse luck, but they're still weakened enough that Stiles thinks he can probably run them off, even though there are two of them. As Stiles watches, they move across to his ancient television, debate for a second with their heads together and then each take an end.

"You must be really desperate breaking in here," Stiles says, moving quick and determined into the living room now that their hands are otherwise occupied, brandishing the bat. They make to put the television down but Stiles shakes his head. "Nope, make a move and I'll start swinging."

He wants them both holding something so they can't reach for anything worse, like a gun. It's not usually a vampire's modus operandi but you can never be too careful.

"You said the place was empty, Dwayne," the vamp on the right hisses at the left and _Dwayne_ looks supremely pained.

"I saw a carload of kids leaving. I don't know where _he_ came from," he defends.

"How about we just call it a wash, huh? You guys take off, I won't call the cops. No harm, no foul," Stiles proposes genially.

"How about we do this," the vamp on the right says and they both let go of the television. It doesn't fall far and it's a solid monster of a thing being so old so it doesn't smash like they were probably hoping for, but there is the dull _snick_ of something deep and vital inside breaking.

As far as intimidation tactics go, it's wholly unimpressive and Stiles gives the two vampires a disappointed tilt of his head. They both look down at the television like it betrayed them and it would be funny if the situation weren't still extremely dangerous, as Dwayne proves by looking up and giving Stiles a contemplatively hungry once-over. "This might not be a total waste," he says, jutting his chin at Stiles for his companion's benefit.

"Guys, I'm really not worth your time. I'm totally anaemic. Really low on those yummy red blood cells."

"That's what they all say," the vamp on the right says and they both take a step towards him. Stiles lifts the baseball bat higher, waggles it a little, but it's probably not much of a deterrent since vampires can heal just like werewolves, faster if they've just fed which they're obviously intending to do. Stiles knows that he's got one chance to still make it out of this intact and damned if he's going to survive being jumped by a Skinner in the Shingles only to be killed in his own living room.

"What kind of a name is _Dwayne_ for a vampire, anyway?" he asks and they do exactly what he was hoping they would. They stop their advance.

"What?" Dwayne says flatly.

"I mean, it's certainly brave hanging onto a name like that. Most vampires I've met change their names because they want to, y'know, inspire a little fear. They're all _Darkness_ and _Plague_. I'm not really shaking in my shoes here at the prospect of being attacked by a vampire named _Dwayne_. It's kinda embarrassing actually."

The best thing that could possibly happen, does. The yet unnamed vampire snorts out a laugh. Dwayne immediately turns on him, eyes narrowed and fangs out. "Just what do you think is so funny, _Lewis_?" he hisses.

"It's _Lash_ now, I told you," Lewis insists, looking equally annoyed and Stiles lowers his bat a little. The vampires he's encountered are usually narcissistic and volatile and he's relieved to see it's more a species trait than just the level of a-hole vampires he's encountered. Most vampires he's met are solitary and this seems to be why, that they can't get along with their own kind for long enough to form any sort of lasting partnership. 

Stiles watches as the two vampires hiss at each other. They look about three seconds away from throwing down when Dwayne shakes himself. "Fuck it, I'm too hungry to fight with you right now," he says to Lewis and then their attention swings back to Stiles.

"If you don't-" Stiles starts to say, but pauses when the two vampires go from looking deeply unimpressed with the threat he poses to abject terror in the space of a few seconds.

"Woah, we didn't know," Lewis splutters, knocking into Dwayne as he starts to move hastily backwards.

"Yeah... that's..." Stiles starts, a little unsure but gamely waggling the baseball bat again. It's then that Stiles realizes he no longer has their attention, that they're looking past him with wide, feral eyes.

Stiles risks a glance over his shoulder and sees the kitchen door open behind him and Derek blocking out the light, looking somehow bigger than usual with red enraged eyes and a mouth full of fangs.

"We were never here!" Dwayne gets out on a squeak. They're still backing up, but they obviously aren't moving fast enough for Derek's liking because he takes in a deep lungful of air and then _roars_. The noise that bursts out of Derek is indescribable, Stiles can feel it through his ribs and spine and even though he's no kind of were, a deep-down primal part of him still wants to curl up at Derek's feet and show his belly.

The vampires risk turning around to hit the front door at a flat run. 

Derek's mouth shuts with an audible click when the fleeing vampires clear the porch, leaving a silence that's so thick Stiles feels he could almost push against it. Stiles stares at Derek while Derek stares at the door, panting raggedly, looking like maybe he's contemplating a pursuit. It's crazy, possibly even suicidal, but Stiles steps just that couple of inches sideways enough that he breaks Derek's sight-line and yanks back his attention. The werewolf blinks like he's waking up, shakes himself and he's suddenly _Derek_ , adorable bunny teeth, green eyes and all.

"Are you alright?" Derek asks, his hands coming up to land lightly on Stiles' shoulders. Derek's fingers are clawed when they leave his sides and have blunt, clean nails when they touch Stiles like breaching Stiles' personal space is what pushes the wolf back the rest of the way.

"Am I... yeah, I'm okay. Are you? What _was_ that?"

"That was a transgression," Derek says, his mouth firming down to a furious little line.

"I guess?" Stiles says, sensing he's not going to get anything more out of Derek just yet and not really wanting to push. Instead he turns his attention back to the television and sighs, slumping. "Oh Mortimer."

"Mortimer?" Derek asks, face finally clearing as he watches Stiles hunker down in front of the ancient television and rest a hand on the top of it.

"Yes, _Mortimer_. He's about as old as me and he's part of the family so he deserved a name. Oh, please be okay," Stiles chants as he reaches for the power switch and thumbs it. There's another dull _snick_ from Mortimer's deepest innards, a kind of flat buzz and then a belch of smoke out of the back of the set.

"I think it's terminal," Derek says.

"He was too good for this world," Stiles says mournfully, giving Mortimer another affectionate pat. As the adrenalin fades and Stiles' mind basically reboots, he turns back to Derek. "I would've thought you'd be halfway to the Center by now."

"We were. I... heard you," Derek hedges.

"Heard me?" Stiles asks, raising a dubious eyebrow. "Heard me what?"

"Your heart. Your... fear," Derek says.

"With a car full of werekids and the engine running? Wow, just how freaky good are an Alpha's senses?"

"Not that good," Derek says, looking about as puzzled as Stiles feels.

"If you've left my kids in the car then you'd better get back out there. Isaac and Erica will be chewing on the seats by now."

"Right," Derek says, then nods again and says more firmly. "Right, yes."

"Thanks, again. This butt-saving thing you have going is- oh, okay, hello," Stiles gets interrupted by Derek reaching out and pulling him into a firm hug. Derek buries his nose in Stiles' neck and breathes deeply for a few seconds, before pushing away again just as suddenly.

"See you later?" Stiles calls to Derek's back who throws a wave over his head as he thumps out the door without another word. 

"Weirdo," Stiles adds, affectionately.


	9. Chapter 9

Jackson's installed on their couch when Stiles gets home the next day, shoving pretzels into his mouth and watching a shiny new television. 

"What's this?" Stiles asks as Lydia comes in from the kitchen and flops down on the couch next to Jackson, throwing her legs over his lap.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," she says, waving an airy hand at a piece of card taped to the corner of the TV. Stiles leans over to rip the card off and flips it in his fingers to read the cramped writing on the back. 

_It's used, so don't even try to return it. Throw it out into the street if you like but it'd be a waste. Don't be angry - D_

"How come your boyfriend gets to buy us things for the house but you pitch a fit every time Jackson wants to?" Lydia asks, her eyebrows up in a judgemental arc.

"Because you return or destroy whatever Jackson's given you whenever you guys break up. I don't really want to get stuck lugging a television in and out of the house every other Thursday."

"Jerk," Lydia huffs, indignant.

"He's got a point there, Lyds," Jackson says, words mangled by his mouthful.

"Don't agree with me, I've had a weird enough couple of days," Stiles says and Jackson flips him off. "Plus, I'm still scarred from watching you set fire to a four foot teddy bear with a heart for a tummy in the front yard. I don't think I could handle a young, innocent flatscreen meeting the same fate."

"Jerk," Lydia repeats as she throws a cushion at his head. Stiles bats it aside and snatches the bowl of pretzels out of Jackson's grip.

"Hey!" he protests.

"Don't eat our food. We have growing weres in this house."

"I brought those over," Jackson grates out and Stiles grins at him through a mouthful. 

"Oh, well, thanks for the snacks then," he says and Jackson doesn't bother with a pillow, he throws the new television's remote at Stiles' head, which catches him right between the eyes because Jackson is annoying things like athletic and coordinated whereas Stiles is not so he completely fails to duck out of the way in time.

Stiles is still rubbing his forehead when his phone starts playing _Hungry Like the Wolf_. Stiles moves into the kitchen to answer, mostly because Lydia's now standing and is giving him a smirky face as she gestures at the television like a model from The Price Is Right.

"Enjoying the TV?" Derek asks when Stiles answers.

"I put it out on the front porch. Some neighbour kids are making off with it as we speak."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"I can hear it through the phone, Stiles." There's a beat and then Derek says, "Are you watching _The Notebook_?"

"No. Lydia is watching The Notebook because she's a sap and Jackson is watching The Notebook because he has no spine and can't deny Lydia anything," Stiles says, then, "I think the better question is why _you_ can identify that movie just by listening to only a few seconds."

"Not the point," Derek dismisses quickly and Stiles smiles to himself as he opens the fridge and pulls a carton of milk out. 

"You can't distract me with shiny gifts, you know," Stiles says, taking a swallow of milk and then spitting it out again immediately into the sink. "Oh god, milk should not be solid, yurgh!"

"Are you okay?" Derek asks, sounding amused.

"I'm fine," Stiles says, taking a moment to rinse his mouth out under the faucet.

"You don't sound fine. You sound strange," Derek says.

"I'm just trying to figure out how rude it is to ask you what you do for a living, that you can just buy us something like that."

"I'm a freelancer."

"Uhuh," Stiles says slowly and waits, humming to himself. He's gotten through about six repetitions of the chorus of _Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me_ because that's all he knows of the song when Derek breaks.

"Have you put me on hold?" he asks, sounding exasperated.

"Emotional hold," Stiles confirms. "Until you give me a straight answer." 

"I'm an independent contractor."

"I'm hanging up."

"It's not like I can work at the local Denny's looking like I do and being a werewolf."

"Oh god, is it illegal? Are you werewolf mafia?"

"Not exactly," Derek hedges.

"Not _exactly_?"

"I'm not werewolf mafia. There's no such thing."

"So you say," Stiles sniffs. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"You won't like it."

"Try me."

"I'm enjoying you thinking of me as a good guy."

"Derek, not for one minute have I ever thought that," Stiles says and it's such a blatant lie that Derek can probably hear it through the phone.

"I won't let it touch you guys."

"That's not as reassuring as you seem to think it is," Stiles says slowly. He'd been mostly teasing, thinking Derek was from family money or something, that he was dodging an admission that he'd been slumming it the night he'd been at the Lone Wolf. 

"Are you really going to act like you've never done anything illegal in your life?" Derek asks, sounding a little rankled. "I seem to remember a story about you guys stealing an entire truck full of meat and selling it to the neighbourhood when a guy broke down near your house and left it unattended for all of fifteen minutes."

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

"I can control the risk. With you it's this big, gaping _unknown_."

"If you're going to have phone sex, can you please take it to your room," Lydia says, coming into the kitchen to get a soda.

"This is a fight," Stiles snaps, shaking the phone at her.

"Please. That's like foreplay for you guys."

"That's- why are you laughing?" Stiles demands when the tinny sound of Derek's chuckles filter through the phone.

"What are you fighting about?" Lydia asks, her interest snagged.

"He won't tell me what he does for a living."

"What do _you_ do?" Lydia says pointedly.

"I-" Stiles closes his mouth, a little stumped how to answer. He does a series of mostly cash-in-hand jobs, one of which is working illegally in a bar considering he's underage. He would probably also be a little reticent if someone asked him flat-out. "You're not off the hook," he says into the phone.

"Like I said, it won't touch you," Derek repeats.

"Like _I_ said, not reassuring."

"I'll see you Saturday when I pick the kids up."

"Fine," Stiles grumbles, supposing he can cut the guy who's saved his life twice now a little slack, albeit grudgingly.

When he hangs up, Lydia is regarding him with an unreadable expression. "If you want someone completely safe, you should date Deputy Parrish."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles says.

"I'm just saying." Lydia holds her hands up as she backs out of the kitchen. "Look at your life, look at your choices. Don't get angry at Derek for not being what you want him to be when even you don't know what that is."


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles comes down from his room Saturday morning to find Derek at his kitchen table handing around pastry boxes to the kids. 

"I'd like them to at least start off the day healthy even if it's a steady downward slide from there," Stiles gripes at the bottom of the stairs, watching Scott devour two donuts and go hunting for a third in the box in front of him.

"They're weres. It's not like you have to worry about their cholesterol," Derek says with a shrug. Stiles grunts and reaches out to pluck something he's pretty sure is ninety-percent icing from Malia's grip and replace it with a banana. She seems unfazed, not even bothering to unpeel the banana before she bites into it.

"Yeah, chill out," Isaac says, his mouth ringed with powdered sugar.

"They're all going to be super hyped up and then crash," Stiles says, accepting the cup of coffee Derek hands over with a nod of thanks.

"Well, it's lucky I'm taking them off your hands, then," Derek says after taking a swallow from his own cup. He's using the lopsided mug Erica made in art class and she looks pleased as punch about it, watching Derek avidly and with a worrying amount of adoration. The last thing Stiles needs is for Erica to imprint on Derek like a duckling, despite what Derek claims about that not being a thing.

"Your funeral," Stiles shrugs as Lydia bumps into his back and then pokes him in the shoulder blade until he moves out of her way. She takes a seat at the table and then plucks some kind of glazed apple monstrosity from the pile of boxes. "Not you too," Stiles groans.

"What? It's totally fruit," Lydia dismisses, taking a large bite and giving Stiles a grin with her mouth full of mush.

"I'm having cereal," Stiles grumbles, even though it's wholly unsatisfying to eat coconut granola with the smell of over-processed carbs in his nose. He eats over the sink, throwing unimpressed looks at the table.

His kitchen is always such a jumble and Stiles is not at his functional best this early which is what he'll blame for taking entirely too long to notice an extra body at the table. 

"Why is Allison Argent in my kitchen in her underwear?" he asks and feels only slightly better about his lack of observational skills when Lydia looks up, bewildered and blinks hard and surprised at the young, dark-haired girl sitting opposite her.

"I thought maybe you guys had an extra I just hadn't seen before," Derek says, holding a donut out to _Allison Argent_ , who takes it with a dimpled grin. 

"She's wearing my boxers," Scott says, like he's _proud_ of that and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Okay, why is Allison Argent in my kitchen in _your_ underwear?" he amends with narrowed eyes.

"She stayed over."

"I don't remember being asked if that was okay," Stiles says pointedly. 

"You and Lydia have people over all the time," Scott protests, flailing a hand at Derek. 

"I haven't slept over yet," Derek interrupts, turning in his chair to give Stiles a significant look.

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" Stiles smarts back and Derek holds up his hands, conceding the point. "And Lydia and I are _adults_."

"I'm nearly seventeen," Scott says.

"You share a room with Isaac. Did you make him sleep on the couch?"

"Nope," Isaac says, not even bothering to look up. At Stiles' horrified glare, Scott blushes an almost fire truck red.

"We didn't _do_ anything. We slept above the covers, in our clothes."

"In _your_ clothes, you mean."

"It was totally innocent Mr. Stilinski," Allison pipes up.

" _Mr. Stilinski_ ," Isaac snorts.

"Allison, you can call me Stiles. Scott, this is _not_ okay."

"You've gotta stop treating me like I'm the same age as Erica and Isaac. I'm not," Scott argues. 

"If you want us to treat you like an adult, you should act like one. Let us know if you want to have your girlfriend over."

"She's not my... we haven't... the discussion hasn't..."

"That's okay," Allison says easily and Scott seems to forget all about his current fight with Stiles in favor of turning wide, smitten eyes on Allison.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning hugely.

"Sure," Allison says, looking completely unbothered.

"Doesn't your dad run that Hunters and Shooters club down on Fifth?" Lydia asks, pointing her coffee spoon at Allison.

"They have a no-kill policy," Allison says quickly.

"Well isn't that nice," Lydia says with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Would you guys stop being major douchebags?" Scott snaps and picks up Allison's hand to tow her out of the kitchen.

"You're still going to the Center today!" Stiles bawls after him. 

"Fine!" Scott yells back and there's the thumping of him and Allison disappearing upstairs and a door slamming shut.

"I've just seen a whole new side of you," Derek says.

"Eat me," Stiles grunts.

"Eat this. Maybe you'll be feeling a little more charitable when you're not deprived," Derek says, tossing a chocolate muffin over. Stiles snatches it out of the air and resists the urge to punt it straight into the garbage, instead peeling the top off and taking a vicious bite because a man can't be expected to deal with what he does on granola alone.

"This is not going to end well," Lydia says, looking up at the ceiling when music starts blaring.

"It's two days till the full moon. He'll be feeling rebellious," Derek observes.

"Wow. Tell me more oh wise wolf on the mountaintop," Stiles says sarcastically.

"I'm not sure why _you're_ acting like you are," Derek says with narrowed eyes.

"I made him face some uncomfortable truths," Lydia says airily.

"Sounds painful," Derek comments and she nods and smiles at him and Stiles crosses his arms and pouts, feeling ganged up on.

There's a perfunctory knock on the back door and then Deputy Parrish pokes his head through. Stiles slumps against the kitchen sink in defeat, because apparently his life is becoming some weird kind of tragic sitcom. 

Lydia looks absolutely _delighted_.

"Hey guys," Parrish says jovially. He's all handsome and nice and _sweet_ and Stiles really wishes he _could_ be attracted to him because it would make his life a lot less complicated. Parrish notices Derek glowering at him and looks at Lydia. "Uh, new boyfriend, Lydia?"

Isaac and Erica both spray juice across the kitchen table when they snort out braying laughter and Malia squeals in joyful disgust. Derek stands, dabbing at his juice-dotted t-shirt almost delicately with a napkin. "Nope," Derek says, popping the 'P' deliberately and staring Parrish down.

"What was that you said about the full moon and being a dick?" Stiles grumbles, darting forward to snag Parrish and drag him into the living room.

"Sorry, is this a bad time?" Parrish asks, craning back towards the kitchen and frowning.

"No, it's fine," Stiles says. "Did you need me to sign anything or, oh god, did Scott do something else?"

"No, I... no, nothing like that. I was just wondering if you'd thought about coming to the awards dinner with me?" 

"I thought you told him no!" Derek calls from the kitchen.

"None of your business!" Stiles shrills back and then gives Parrish a tight, embarrassed little smile.

"Who is that?"

"That's just Derek. He's going through his time of the month," Stiles says, grimacing. 

Derek comes to lean in the doorway, his impressive arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows drawn down. "Tell the nice Deputy that you're really flattered but that you are otherwise engaged," he says, a touch of a growl under his words. The effect is somewhat diminished by Lydia skirting by him and slapping Derek on the bicep, shaking her head at his ridiculous Alpha male display before she runs upstairs to yell at Scott to turn the music down.

"I don't remember inviting you to this conversation," Parrish says, turning on Derek.

"I don't think I care."

"You look really familiar to me," Parrish says with narrowed eyes.

"You look like a-"

"Hey!" Stiles interrupts, looking between the two men who are basically now both standing with their chests puffed out like posturing birds. "Are you serious right now?"

"Are you sure you want to push me? Wolfsbane mace is part of an officer's standard kit."

"Does Deputy Do-Right here know that you work illegally in a bar in the Shingles? Think he'd want to parade you in front of his nice department buddies knowing that?" Derek sneers.

"Wow, outside, right now," Stiles says, pointing.

"I'm taking the kids-"

"I didn't say _leave_. I just need you to go outside before I ask Parrish for his mace."

"Fine," Derek grits out and shoulder-checks Parrish on his way to the front door.

"I _am_ working," Stiles says when Derek's gone. "Totally legitimately, I swear."

"It's alright, I'm not going to bust you," Parrish says, rubbing a hand over the back of his head and then looking towards the front door. "For that, anyway."

"I know how it looks," Stiles says, eyes fixed on his shoes.

"I'm not going to give you any kind of I'm-a-nicer-guy-than-him speech because that's... but..." Parrish makes a helpless gesture with his hands.

"I wish I could explain it."

"Stiles, you don't have to, seriously. You're free to be with whoever you want to be with. Just, I don't want to see you get hurt. Again."

"I'm being careful."

"Are you?" Parrish says, looking unconvinced.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to blcwriter who pointed out that chapter eleven kind of came out of nowhere - which was because it was actually CHAPTER TWELVE and I'd posted the wrong chapter. It's fixed now - the proper Chapter 11 is posted and Chapter 12 is where it should be. This is what I get when I post at work and then don't check what I'm doing!

Stiles slows when he gets to the employee entrance of the Lone Wolf because Derek is leaning against the wall outside, looking shady as hell. Stiles smiles to himself, thinking if he hadn't seen Derek Alpha-out only very recently, he might think the looks were all an act and that his alter-ego was mostly made of marshmallow fluff.

"What are you doing here? Need a job?" Stiles quips.

"Got you the night off," Derek says, offering his arm and giving Stiles a smile of his own.

"What?"

"I said-"

"No, I heard you. Why?"

"I thought it was about time we had a real date without either of us having to rush off anywhere. I figured this was the best way," Derek says and while he looks completely unassuming, Stiles is surprised to discover that he knows Derek just well enough now that he can tell when he's lying. He's just not exactly sure about which part.

"Ahab gave me the night off because, what, you asked nicely?" Stiles questions, tilting his head and squinting at Derek in the dim yellow light being cast by the dying bulb above the employee entrance door.

"Yes. Admittedly, your version of asking nicely and mine are probably different," Derek hedges and Stiles throws up his hands.

"What the hell, Derek? I need this job. Did you _threaten_ him?"

"Of course not. He owes me a few favors."

"Ahab owes you favors?" Stiles asks flatly, disbelieving.

"The supernatural community is very collaborative."

"Bullshit," Stiles snorts. "What's going on?"

"I'm taking you to a nice hotel and we're getting room service and-"

"Lydia's supposed to be working later," Stiles interjects.

"I got her the night off too. She's currently at a very swanky restaurant with Jackson. Before you ask, Boyd and his sister are looking after your kids until the morning."

"You've got everything worked out, don't you?" Stiles says, suspicious.

"You're not just going to come with me, are you?" Derek asks, sounding exasperated.

"Nope."

"Lydia was a lot easier to convince. I was barely through telling her she didn't have to work and she was out the door."

"I'm not Lydia."

"I'm very aware," Derek says and then he glances up at the sky like he's asking someone up there for strength.

"It's about the private booking, isn't it?" Stiles asks and Derek almost flinches, which means he's right. 

"What do you know about that?"

"I know Ahab told us he had some guy book out the whole place for a private party and he needed all hands on deck. He was paying double which, now I think about it, should have set off all kinds of alarm bells."

"I'll reimburse you."

"We're back to this again, really?" Stiles huffs, turning in place and stalking angrily back to the jeep. He hears Derek following. 

"Where are you going?" Derek asks, reaching out to snag Stiles' jacket.

"Home, by myself apparently. Unless you want to tell me the real reason you want me _and_ Lydia clear of this place tonight?"

Stiles watches Derek fidget in front of him, very obviously weighing his options, coming up with lies and then discarding them. It's fascinating to watch Derek's usually controlled face flip hopelessly through expressions until finally he slumps, every line of his body reading defeat. "Fine."

"What was that?" Stiles says, leaning forward and going so far as to cup a hand around his ear obnoxiously.

"I said _fine_. The place has been booked out by my Uncle."

"Oh," Stiles says, reflexively hurt. 

"C'mon, don't make that face, it's not what you think."

"What is it then?" Stiles says. It's suddenly occurred to him that maybe he wasn't so far off the mark when he'd assumed Derek was slumming it, but with _Stiles_ rather than with the bar.

"My Uncle is... he and the kind of people he would invite to one of his private shindigs... I just don't want you guys anywhere near that."

"It's not because you're embarrassed about me or have another secret family or something?"

"Jesus, no Stiles."

"Then why have I never seen your place? You book a hotel, which is _hugely_ presumptuous by the way, instead of maybe just..." Stiles flails his hands in a helpless gesture.

"I booked a hotel for you to _sleep_ , Stiles. I thought maybe you'd like to have an uninterrupted twelve hours for once and not get an elbow in the spleen as your wake up call."

"The elbow to the spleen is the way the kids tell me they love me," Stiles sniffs. "Plus, it's better than a knee to the groin which is the alternative some mornings."

"And my place is just... boring. It's big and clean and _empty_. You keep saying you guys are chaos, that you're a mess. It turns out I like mess."

"Can I at least peek inside, see this Uncle?" Stiles says, leaning around Derek but he moves with Stiles, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back against the jeep gently.

"He's not that interesting, believe me."

"No, seriously. I want to see what you'll turn out like when you're old...er. Like, are you going to grow into a grey fox or are you going to have bits dropping off like an old cliff."

"No, Stiles."

Stiles slumps back against the jeep again and gives Derek a shrewd look. "Are you sure this isn't you being embarrassed about me?"

"Trust me, it's the opposite," Derek says, throwing a glance over his shoulder like he's expecting this mysterious Uncle to just appear behind him.

"What am I to you?" Stiles asks, taking a chance and Derek returns his attention to him abruptly, eyebrows pushed together in consternation.

"I think the question is, what am I to _you_?" 

"Am I being an asshole? I keep thinking I am but... I don't know how to give you what you want, to move any faster."

"Our progress is truly glacial," Derek agrees and there's sadness and a little defeat in his tone. Stiles knows without a shadow of a doubt that Derek is not just looking to throw his leg over someone, that there is _something_ there, but he's still instinctively holding himself back and he doesn't know how to stop.

"If you get close to being sick of waiting, warn me, okay?"

"I won't just disappear on you. I know that's probably what you're waiting for," Derek says and watches the way Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but then closes it again firmly because claiming that _wasn't_ at least part of the problem would be a lie.

"I'm just scared to let you in, because you're so great that you throw everything else in my life that's crappy into stark relief."

"Please don't tell me you're giving me the _it's not you, it's me_ speech," Derek groans, leaning forward to drop his forehead on Stiles' shoulder.

"I'm not breaking up with you, dumbass," Stiles says, rubbing his fingers through the small hairs at Derek's nape, reveling in the feeling of being able to so casually touch such a force of nature. 

"Feels like it," Derek grumbles into Stiles' shirt and he smiles helplessly at how petulant Derek sounds.

"So, you've already paid for this hotel room?"

"They have my credit card details," Derek says, tilting his head so he's looking up at Stiles through his ridiculous lashes.

"Just sleeping?"

"Room service and sleeping," Derek agrees, tilting back fully with a hopeful expression.

"And no kids," Stiles says, making it sound like he's still considering the idea, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"No kids."

"Maybe a little naughty Pay Per View? We can't watch anything higher than a G-rating with Malia in the house. She hears it and then swears like a drunken sailor for weeks afterwards."

"By _naughty_ , you mean-?"

"Fight Club," Stiles practically moans. 

"Of course," Derek sighs, his keen expression melting away and Stiles has to curl over himself, laughing helplessly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry guys - Chapter 12 was posted as Chapter 11 - so Chapter 11 has now been inserted (dirty!) in the right place.

"Would you judge me if I jumped on the bed?" Stiles asks. 

At home Stiles has what can only optimistically be called a double with one mean little pillow and a blanket if he's lucky and none of the others (Lydia) have stolen it. The hotel bed has blankets, a comforter, one of those special little strips of material across the end of the mattress that's purely for decorative purposes and _so many pillows_ Stiles is left wondering if they'll notice if he steals a couple.

"I'd judge you if you didn't," Derek says with a raised eyebrow and that's all the permission Stiles needs, launching himself at the bed with a whoop and landing in the middle, scattering pillows everywhere. Stiles rolls around, kicking the stupid end thing off the bed because it's the one bit that's kind of scratchy and then piles pillows on top of himself until he feels like he's in a warm, squishy cocoon. 

He's so deeply buried it takes a few minutes of determined digging for Derek to unearth him to rub an affectionate hand over Stiles' mashed-flat hair.

"C'mon, what do you want to eat?" Derek asks, pushing a room menu at him.

"Can't we just order one of everything?" Stiles suggests, flipping through the menu without really looking at it. 

"Stiles, the menu has five pages."

"You're right, what was I thinking? _Two_ of everything."

"I'd really like to see you try and eat that much," Derek says, stealing the menu back from Stiles and fwapping him in the head with it.

"The secret is to be like a duck."

"Do I want to know?"

Stiles sits up with a grin and then gets up on his knees. "Ducks will keep eating until they explode. They fit more in by doing this," Stiles says, and then does an impression of an accordion with his body, squishing down and stretching out again. "They're like the bird version of a trash compactor."

"Why do you know that?" Derek says, looking helplessly fond.

"Are you springing for dinner or what?"

"I'll order you some stuff you'll like. You won't be disappointed."

"You've been here before, huh?" Stiles says, flopping back onto the bed and star-fishing his limbs out. Derek tugs on his foot and Stiles kicks out at him.

"Couple of times, yeah."

"You bring all the guys here you're trying to impress?" Stiles asks, going for casual with his query but Derek just gives him a narrow-eyed look.

"Are you trying to pick a fight with me or something?"

"I'm just curious," Stiles defends, even though from his expression, he can tell that Derek doesn't buy that. Stiles is becoming more and more aware that he knows precious little about Derek, other than that he has an Uncle who he's either embarrassed about or scared of, even that's not totally clear. Derek might claim that Stiles is a closed book about some things, but Derek is worse, just a dust jacket someone's removed the book from completely, like his life has been redacted from public consumption.

"I come here when I don't want anyone to find me," Derek admits, eyes determinedly on the menu in his hands.

"So, sometimes you have to _lay low_? That's very gangster."

"Still no werewolf mafia," Derek says, dropping onto the corner of the bed with his back to Stiles now, reaching for the phone on the side table. Stiles curls upright and then keeps on going until he's able to drape himself over Derek, arms hanging over his shoulders and chin resting on the top of Derek's head. He feels Derek take a deep breath and then let it out slowly again, Derek's back expanding and contracting against his ribs.

Stiles thinks maybe the heavy sigh is one of impatience, but then there's fingers clasping loosely around Stiles' right forearm and circling his left wrist. "This is ni-" Stiles starts to say, but that's when Derek drops backwards, squishing Stiles underneath him. 

"Ugh! You weigh a million pounds!" Stiles protests, smacking at Derek's face blindly.

Derek shifts slightly. He doesn't slide all the way off, but suddenly Stiles doesn't have to fear compression suffocation anymore while Derek is still mostly lying on him and it goes back to being nice. Stiles curls his arms back around Derek's shoulders and his legs around his waist for good measure, hooking his ankles in front of Derek's belly.

"This would be more fun if you were facing me," Stiles muses.

"Maybe all I want is a hug without you getting the wrong idea," Derek says primly, fingers drumming on one of Stiles' bony ankles. Derek rolls then so he's lying on his stomach and Stiles is doing an unwitting impression of a turtle shell. 

"You're so weird," Stiles huffs, extricating himself, but not all the way, instead sitting on Derek's ass and bracing his hands on Derek's back. He leans forward and licks Derek behind the ear and Derek makes a half disgusted, half intrigued noise before he rolls again, more carefully this time so Stiles can raise and then settle himself until he's straddling Derek's waist, knees pressed into the bed by Derek's hips.

"This is definitely not hug territory," Stiles observes and Derek shrugs underneath him. He's feigning being unaffected, but there's color in his cheeks and spreading down his throat. Stiles reaches out without really thinking about it and undoes the first two buttons on Derek's button-down shirt to see how far the blush has spread. He rubs his fingertips against the smattering of hair across Derek's collarbones. 

"Having fun now?" Derek asks dryly, but the word _now_ wobbles a little when Stiles pushes his hand further underneath Derek's shirt, following the hair. 

"Thought you might be a waxer," Stiles says, raising an eyebrow and Derek lets out an indignant huff.

"Shut up."

"Seriously. I was expecting a chest as smooth as a baby's bottom."

"How about you then?" Derek says and tugs Stiles' shirt up. He makes a surprised noise like he wasn't expecting the thick trail of hair between Stiles' belly button and his belt even though he must have seen it with the stupidly tight and short uniform shirt at the Lone Wolf. Derek scratches idly at the sensitive skin and Stiles fights the urge to curl away from him, ticklish.

There's a swift rap on the hotel room door and Derek groans feelingly. "Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away," Stiles says, but as he does, whoever it is tries the door knob and there's the click that means the door is open. "You didn't lock it?" Stiles complains and then he's being lifted and deposited gently on the bed beside Derek and Derek pushes up and is across the room blindingly fast, catching the door as it swings inwards.

"Oh, Mr.Hale, I apologize. I thought you might not be in and I was going to leave this for you," a man in a hotel uniform says, pushing a wheeled table in front of him. There's a silver bucket with either the neck of a wine or a champagne bottle sticking out of it at a jaunty angle and two clear, glass bowls, one filled with giant, juicy red strawberries and the other with chocolates. 

"I didn't order this," Derek says, frowning at the cart.

"No sir. With compliments," the man says. "Can I get you anything else?"

Derek gives Stiles a questioning look and Stiles says, "Your most expensive food stuffed with your second most expensive!" Obviously neither man has seen a Simpson episode ever because they both look blankly back at him.

When the man transfers his confused look to Derek, he pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "Couple of the house burgers will be fine, thanks."

"Yes, sir," the man says and Derek walks him to the door, passing him a tip in that cool, underhanded way Stiles has never managed to master. Stiles usually has to dig into his pockets and then ends up showering the poor person with quarters until he finds a crumpled five, if he's lucky.

"You sure you didn't arrange this?" Stiles says, scooting to the edge of the bed. He snags the table to tug it to him so he can yank the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket and squint at the label. 

"I suppose it's a regular customer thing."

"You sure you come here _alone_ usually?" Stiles asks, waggling the champagne accusingly.

"Yes," Derek says, rolling his eyes again.

"Oh hey, there's a card!" Stiles says, reaching for it and flipping the crisp, white paper open. Derek snatches at it but Stiles hugs it to his body, prodding Derek away with the champagne bottle. "What the... _Enjoying the boy?_ What the hell?" Stiles says, turning over the hand-written note. There's just a _-P_ written on the back in a flourish.

"Goddamit," Derek almost growls and this time when he holds his hand out, Stiles passes the note over. 

"Your Uncle?" Stiles guesses and Derek sighs, balling the card in a fist as he nods. "Creep-pee," Stiles observes.

"Sorry. I'll take you home," Derek says, looking horribly deflated.

"Why? Is he going to come here?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Would he have actually physically touched any of this?" Stiles says, waving over the spread.

"He has minions that do his dirty work."

"Then I think it would be a pity to let this go to waste. You owe me room service _and_ Fight Club _and_ twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep."

"You want to stay?" Derek asks, looking surprised.

"Sure," Stiles says, shrugging. "I mean, if this is the worst he's going to do. _Is_ this the worst he's going to do?"

"He's made his point."

"Then my only concern is how many pillows I can smuggle out of here," Stiles says, setting aside the champagne and shoving one of the biggest pillows under his shirt and caressing the bulge under his shirt with a smirk. "According to the internet, this is actually poss-"

Stiles doesn't get to finish his thought as Derek tackles him to the bed.


	13. Chapter 13

"A tattoo?" Stiles practically screeches. Lydia winces and leans away from him and Derek looks like he wants to melt into the floor. Lydia had sat him down on the couch with a very serious expression when they'd gotten home, started with _now don't freak out_ and then told him that _Scott_ had gotten a _tattoo_.

What the hell?

"Where is he?" Stiles growls.

"He's at Allison's place. He figured you'd be upset and wanted to give you time to calm down," Lydia says.

"He should've gone to _Canada_ because that's how long it will take me to calm down," Stiles grits. "Where the... I mean, how? He's sixteen and a werewolf. How is this even possible?"

"Apparently Terry knew a place that specialized in tattooing werewolves and I'm guessing a place like that doesn't bother to check ID," Lydia says and then under her breath, "Or adhere to any kind of health codes."

"Who the fuck is Terry?" Stiles demands.

"Uh," Derek says and Stiles whirls on him, livid. Derek actually _cringes_ which would be hilarious in any other situation. "Terry's the sponsor I found for Scott at the Pack Center."

"You found him a sponsor that thought it was a good idea to take an underage kid to get a tattoo? Why am I not surprised?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Derek asks, starting to look pissed off but Stiles waves a dismissive hand at him. 

"Oh no, you don't get to be offended right now," he warns.

"He seemed okay."

"He _seemed_ okay? That's what you're going to say to me?"

"I didn't ask for the guy's resume. He was willing to take on Scott, he teaches a meditation class at the Center and while he does have some ink, I didn't think that would be a deal breaker or an indicator that he would be an enabler for someone else to get some. I'm not psychic."

Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket, grumbling and thumbs the screen active, then brings up Facebook. Lydia makes a grab for his phone but Stiles yanks it out of her reach and then squints hard and disapproving at the screen until he finds the photos he knew would be there. "Ugh, I hate it," he announces, staring morosely at the photo of a grinning Scott baring his bicep and the two thick, black bands that now circle it.

"Okay, maybe that's enough," Lydia says, reaching for the phone again and Stiles holds her off with an elbow.

"Why? Is there more than one tattoo?" he demands, flipping through the earlier photos Scott's uploaded and then makes a heartfelt gagging noise and swallows hard.

"No, just progress pictures," Lydia says and this time Stiles doesn't fight her on relieving him of the phone. He can't really feel his hands and everything is washing grey in his vision. The next thing he knows, he's looking up at Derek's concerned expression. He's a lot more horizontal than he remembers being.

"What just happened?" Derek asks, eyebrows pulled down in worried confusion.

"He fainted," Lydia says, her own unimpressed face appearing in Stiles' line of sight. "He's not good with blood."

Derek gets an arm under Stiles' shoulders and levers him into a sitting position as he comments, "You'll be perfectly calm while attempting to talk your way out of a couple of vampires eating you in your own living room but you faint at the sight of a little blood?"

"That wasn't a _little_ ," Stiles starts to protest at the same time that Lydia says, " _Vampires_?"

Stiles gives Derek a _thanks a lot_ glare. "It was hardly a thing and Derek was here."

"Derek came back, you mean," Derek huffs, clearly not trying to be quiet because Lydia hears him and shoves Derek out of the way so she can grab Stiles by the shoulders.

"They were in the _house_? When? Why? Where was I? Where were the _kids_?"

"Yes, when the TV got broken, you were working and they were in Derek's car," Stiles answers her questions in order.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lydia demands, poking him hard in the chest.

"Ow! Look, I didn't want to worry you and like I said, it was hardly anything. They were stealing the TV when I busted them and they ran off."

Lydia turns on Derek, eyes narrowed. Stiles tugs at her shirt, trying to get her focus back on him but she smacks his hand away and then levels her jabby, pointy finger of judgement at Derek who looks justifiably nervous about it. "Is that all that happened?" When Derek leans sideways, Lydia follows the movement. "No, don't look at him."

"They'd refocused on Stiles when I got here. He was able to stall them for a few minutes, but it didn't look good."

"Stiles," Lydia snaps, whirling back on him and instead of looking furious like he expects her to, Lydia looks visibly upset and shaken. She might not be strictly angry, but the punch she delivers to his shoulder still hurts. "You need to tell me this stuff. I thought we were a team."

"Oh geez, we are," Stiles says, reaching up and wrapping his arms around her. Lydia beats her small fists against his chest again for good measure but then she's slumping into the curve of his body. She lets herself sniffle wetly into his hoodie for about ten seconds, before she's sitting back and swiping at her face with an impatient hand.

"Promise me. Anything like that happens again, you _tell_ me."

"It won't."

"Stiles."

"Yes, okay, I promise," Stiles relents. She sits back on her heels so he can push himself more fully upright and rest his back against the couch, feeling suddenly exhausted. Derek is still hovering awkwardly and Stiles offers him a half-smile because yet again, Derek is audience to Stilinski family drama and still hasn't gone screaming from the building.

"What the hell is the point of those wards if vampires can waltz into the living room?" Lydia snaps, flicking a hand at the front door.

"Wards?" Derek asks, frowning and craning backwards like he can see them from where he's standing. 

"Mom insisted on carving wards above the door of every place we moved to. I always thought they would be for protection but apparently not," Stiles says.

"Well, the magic in wards usually dies with the caster," Derek says and then offers an apologetic grimace.

"That makes sense," Stiles says with a shrug and lets Derek pull him to his feet. He moves over to the door where Lydia is now standing with her arms folded and a cross look on her face like she can scold the ward back into working like it should be. Derek follows and reaches up a hand to touch the ward lightly with a thumb. There's a faint hiss when he does and Derek pulls his hand back and sticks his thumb in his mouth for a second, sucking contemplatively.

"What?" Stiles prompts when the silence stretches out.

"Well, the ward's still active," Derek says, showing Stiles the fading red mark on the pad of his thumb.

"Then it's defective," Lydia says, rolling her eyes.

"No, it's... pretty strong actually."

"But..." Lydia says and waves her hands at the doorway and then the living room.

"It's not a protection ward," Derek says and when Stiles looks pointedly at Derek's still singed thumb, Derek waves it off. "There's something in this ward I reacted to but I don't think it's specifically made to be anti-anything."

"Then what is it, and why is it still activated if you said magic dies with the caster?" Stiles asks. They both turn on Lydia but she holds up her hands and shakes her head.

"It's not me," she says.

"How would you know?" Stiles questions. "Some people have ability and don't know it."

"I had to be tested when I was working for Mr. Lumis at Full Of The Dickens." At Derek and Stiles' blank look, she clarifies, "That bookstore on Maple Street. He had a _special_ collection out back and he said I had to pass as inert so I didn't accidentally activate any of his rarer and more dangerous books."

Derek and Lydia's gazes swing to Stiles now and he shrugs and says, "Well, it can't be me. I'm the most mundaniest of mundanes."

"Do you ever touch this?" Derek asks and when Stiles drops his eyes, Derek steps into him. "Stiles?"

"Just... when I go in or out the door," Stiles admits. Tapping the ward had become more an unconscious habit than anything else. It always felt warm under his fingers and he'd thought it was proof that while his mother might have been flighty, she'd cared fiercely for them. The ward was always the first thing she did before she let them put so much as a stick of furniture in the house. She'd make them sit outside, piled against each other like their luggage until she was done. Stiles had always been reassured because he'd thought it was powerful protection.

It hurt deep down inside to know that it wasn't.

"So what is it then?" Lydia asks, treating Stiles to a curious eyebrow although her question is directed at Derek.

"I'm not one hundred percent sure, but it feels more like... it hides something?"

"Hides something? Are you telling us we might have piles of cash under the floorboards or something?" Stiles asks incredulously because he can't imagine his mother wanting to hide anything unless she thought it was valuable.

"It's really specific and it's focused outwards, see how the two intersecting triangles both have their points towards the front door?" Derek pinches the bridge of his nose for a second, but then reaches up and rips the piece of lintel the ward is inscribed on right off.

"Hey!" Stiles and Lydia protest together.

Derek ignores them, instead reaching a hand into the hole left behind and tugging a small square of material out. Stiles blinks at it as Derek unfolds the material and then frowns at what's revealed. He holds it up.

It's a metal star, gold, with _Deputy Sheriff_ and _Beacon County_ inscribed on it in blocky letters.


	14. Chapter 14

The badge is sitting on the kitchen table and Scott, Isaac, Erica, Lydia and Stiles himself sit around it. Malia's in the living room coloring, her tuneless humming filtering through to them and Stiles is resting his chin on his stacked hands.

"There's a Sheriff Stilinski in Beacon Hills," Stiles says. He'd shooed Derek out of the house and then got straight on the internet, heart pounding and palms sweaty. Derek hadn't wanted to go, but Stiles had been insistent because he knew this was something they had to deal with as a family and while Derek was getting closer, there's still the tiniest part of Stiles that can't accept him the whole way. 

"You think he's our dad?" Lydia asks, tapping a fingernail contemplatively on the badge. 

"I think whoever belonged to this badge, our mother really didn't want them to find us."

"Maybe we could get Derek-" Scott starts and Stiles is shaking his head before Scott can finish.

"No way. We've already got two deadbeat dads turning up on our doorstep every few months looking for money or a place to hide. We don't need a third."

"Maybe he's not a bad guy," Scott argues. "He's a _Sheriff_ , Stiles."

"We don't know if the Sheriff is any relation to us, or if he's corrupt or just all-around bad news," Stiles says, dismissive of the very idea.

"I know you don't like taking risks-" Lydia starts to say and Stiles cuts her off with a narrow-eyed look.

"I don't like risking this _family_. There's a difference."

"Why is it your decision, anyway?" Lydia challenges. "I say we vote on it."

"Not going to happen," Stiles grits and Lydia turns on him, expression steely.

"I don't remember voting you captain of this ship, Stiles. I know you think you're the boss of us but you're really not."

"Yeah," Scott joins in and Stiles punches him in the shoulder. The one with the tattoo. "Ow!"

"Tell me, Stiles, when did you stop seeing us as your family and start seeing us as your responsibility?" Lydia asks archly.

"I don't really see a difference."

"I do. We're a _team_ Stiles. We make decisions together, especially big ones. You can't decide for us. God, sometimes you treat me like I'm one of the twins!"

"It's my _job_ , alright? I have to look after you, me!"

"We look after each other," Isaac pipes up, eyes wide. 

Stiles deflates, rubbing a tired hand over his face. "You know what I mean."

"You can't hide things from us and you can't decide _for_ us just because you think you know what's best."

"If this is about the vampire thing again-"

"What vampire thing?" Scott asks, mouth dropping open.

Lydia shakes her head now, ponytail whipping side to side. "It's not just about that. You won't let Derek in."

"Don't bring him into this," Stiles groans.

"Why not? You keep him at arm's length long enough, he'll get the hint."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're terrified of him hurting us. You think you're Claudia, that you attract trouble. Derek's good for you. I just wish you'd stop being so afraid he'll hurt us and do something for yourself for once."

Isaac and Erica get into a shoving match with their elbows and everyone turns their attention to them. They're having a heated, non-verbal argument as only they can, fascinating to watch but also infuriating. "Just what the hell are you two doing?" Stiles demands. 

"We followed him," Erica blurts and Isaac jabs her so hard in the ribs that she nearly gets pushed clear off her chair.

"We don't know what it means!" Isaac shrills.

"You don't-" Erica starts to bluster, and then they've gone non-verbal again, eyes flashing at each other. Stiles reaches out and takes a wrist of each twin in hand, squeezing. They both subside, slumping and looking equally guilty and resigned. 

"Spill it," Stiles instructs.

"We followed Derek," Isaac admits to his hands, tugging on his nails like he does when he's nervous.

"You followed Derek?" Stiles repeats slowly. He glances at Lydia but she looks about as mystified as he feels, shrugs and inclines her head at Isaac and Erica.

"When he took us to the Center the second time, he said he had to go and run an errand and we followed him."

"Malia was getting attached," Erica says, eyes darting away as she crosses her arms over her chest. 

" _You_ were getting attached," Isaac argues, poking her in the cheek with an accusatory finger.

"We just wanted to make sure he was good, for you," Erica says, smacking Isaac's hand away. "For all of us."

Stiles _knows_ he shouldn't ask, that he should tell them what they found out is none of either his or their business, a better person would, but Stiles is not a better person. At least, he doesn't feel like one these days. 

Lydia saves him from the internal debate he's having with himself when she says, "So? Out with it."

"We don't know what it means," Isaac repeats.

"Then tell us, and we'll figure it out," Stiles says gently. "I mean, it can't be that bad if you didn't tell us straight away. Is Derek a fake name? I knew it. He totally looks more like a -"

"He was meeting Peter," Erica says.

"Peter? As in... _Peter_ Peter? As in, only hung around Claudia long enough to knock her up with Malia _Peter_?"

"He didn't look happy. They were arguing. We couldn't hear what about because we didn't want to get close enough for them to see us," Isaac says, looking apologetic.

"How the hell would Derek even know _Peter_? There's a guy with a fake name if ever I heard one. I mean, c'mon. Peter _Smith_? That's totally..."

Stiles hates his brain sometimes. He _hates_ it. He can make intuitive leaps that most other people will remain blissfully ignorant of. His brain, the traitorous organ that it is, dredges up a few seemingly unrelated events and shunts them together so they make a horrible kind of sense.

Derek not wanting Stiles or Lydia to so much as lay eyes on his Uncle. The note only signed with a _P_. Derek himself only dropping into his life out of the blue, being at the right place at just the right time.

"He's not Peter Smith. He's Peter _Hale_ ," Stiles says in a choked off little whisper.


	15. Chapter 15

Derek conveniently, or inconveniently, disappears for two days. 

It's not until the third day when Stiles is working at the motel again and after having left a series of increasingly acerbic messages that Derek rings back. 

"Hey" he says, sounding infuriatingly warm and _normal_. "Look, I know you're probably pissed at me for disappearing like that but I was doing something I knew you would't like and-"

Stiles can _hear_ the smile in Derek's voice as he's talking and that, more than anything, steels Stiles for the conversation he's about to have. "What, like reporting in to _Peter_ about us?" Stiles hisses. He's in a bathroom, down on his knees scrubbing tiles. He feels hot, tired and unbelievably, inescapably _stuck_ and it makes him so angry he can barely see straight. 

To have to have this out with Derek right now is the final broken straw.

"What?" Derek says and Stiles feels the tiniest measure of vicious victory that he can hear that the damnable smile has dropped right off Derek's face.

"You heard me," Stiles says, sitting back on his heels and swiping over his sweaty face with the back of his hand. 

"I don't-"

"Turns out that it's such a teeny, tiny world that your Uncle also happens to be Malia's _dad_. What are the chances that we'd run into each other by accident? Or are you going to deny it?"

"No, I'm not," Derek says, voice gone hollow. "Look, can we do this in person?"

"You think I'm going to let you anywhere near me, near _us_ , ever again?" Stiles says, incredulous. 

"Stiles."

"Tell me Derek, now that you have nothing to lose, what _is_ it you actually do that you were so cagey about?"

"I'm in collections, Stiles, okay? Someone doesn't pay, they pay me to go and-"

"Yeah, I know exactly what it is you'd do," Stiles says coldly. He's been getting visits from guys like Derek ever since he can remember, ever since Erica and Isaac's dad Bryce, _gambler_ , and Scott's dad, Rafe, _addict_ , left. 

"I'm usually going after guys just as bad as the-"

"Oh don't give me that," Stiles explodes, feeling sick to his stomach. 

"It's not what you think," Derek says.

"What I think is that it probably would have been less painful if you'd left me to the Skinner that first night. At least he would've killed me quick. A Skinner's motivation is pure, they just want to eat your skin."

"I couldn't just have let it kill you."

"You were sent that night, for me and Lyds. To what? To do _what_? It wasn't an accident or luck that you were there, I was a _job_ , wasn't I? What the hell could he...?" It clicks for Stiles then, what Peter Hale could possibly want. "He wants Malia, doesn't he?" Stiles says in a broken whisper. 

"We lost most of our family-"

"Are you seriously trying to tell me a sob story right now?" Stiles asks, disbelieving. 

"Peter didn't know about Malia until recently."

"Well, considering he didn't hang around Claudia long enough to even let the wet spot dry-"

"Stiles, c'mon. He saw you guys, saw Malia _with_ you guys and she... she looks just like my sister Laura did at that age," Derek says.

"He wasn't sure, was he?"

"Not a hundred percent, no. That's why he sent me. I was only supposed to hang around long enough to confirm it. I didn't mean to-"

"Don't finish that sentence. I don't want to hear whatever gross platitude you're about to offer up."

"Stiles, seriously. I can make this right."

"Oh my god, are you still trying to do this?" Stiles scoffs. 

"Look, I found-"

"Stop talking. God, _stop talking_. _Why_ were you still hanging around? You've gotta know by now that Malia is Peter's. Did you... were you waiting to get something out of it? Did you think, you know, you've invested all this time, might as well get the dumb, trusting kid to ride your dick so you feel like you got your money's worth?"

"I turned down that exact same offer, if you don't remember," Derek points out and Stiles snorts out an indelicate, almost hysterical-sounding laugh.

"Well, you are a _long-con_ kinda guy obviously. Maybe you like that you were making me work for it, wanted my complete trust before you hit it and quit it, huh? More devastating that way, more _satisfying_ for you."

"Stiles, you know me. You know I wouldn't-"

"I don't know you at all," Stiles says and hangs up. He's sitting in the silence for a few seconds, listening to the motel faucet drip when his phone rings again. It's _Salute_ which is Lydia's ring and Stiles sighs and then answers. "Hey, Lyds. Not a good-"

Lydia screeches something, a garbled mess of words and broken sounds and Stiles holds the phone away from his head for a moment, before putting it back. "Lyds, slow down. What did you say?"

"The kids, Stiles! They took the kids!"


	16. Chapter 16

Stiles can't get anything more coherent out of Lydia over the phone, so he shucks his motel uniform polo shirt and throws it at Claude as he darts by him at the front desk on his way out.

"You still have three rooms to do!" Claude yells at him. 

"You got _eight_ cleaned for free today. Consider yourself ahead!" Stiles yells back, thankful it was his turn to take the jeep as he launches himself at the driver's side door and then peels out. He drives on auto-pilot back home, doesn't really remember the trip. When he gets inside the house, Lydia has very obviously moved on from hysterically upset to furious, pacing the living room waving a piece of paper and on the phone coolly telling the person on the other end that they would rue the day they were even born.

"Lyds!" Stiles hisses and she whips around, says something curt about her wrath being so powerful that the person's future generations would feel it and then hangs up.

"I swear to-"

"Lydia, seriously. Tell me what's going on. Who took the kids?" Stiles is trying not to panic quite yet. It’s happened once before, the Stilinskis separated into different homes, but that had been before Claudia had died and whatever his mother had done to get them back, she’d done it quickly and viciously. Stiles really only remembers being separated for about six hours.

It was the longest six hours of his life, but still.

"Was it CPS?"

"Worse. WPA," Lydia says, shoving the paper she'd been waving around at Stiles.

"The Werewolf Protection Agency? Why would they have a beef with us?"

"Apparently there have been a number of anonymous complaints filed. _Apparently_ Scott's tattoo stunt put us over the top _and_ they got a tip that we're underage."

Stiles snorts, because he knows if it wasn't Derek, it would've been Peter. 

"I can't even..." Lydia's rage seems to have run its course and she slumps. "Stiles, I can't even find out where they are."

"Think, Lydia. Use that big, beautiful brain. There's gotta be a way," Stiles says, taking a quick look at the list of grievances stated in the letter the WPA had handed over as justification for removal. Stiles was going to _kill_ Scott, but he'd have to get him back first.

"Parrish!" Lydia says and presses her phone into Stiles' free hand.

"What?"

"The WPA have to file placements with local law enforcement in case there's a problem. Parrish can find out where they are."

"How do you know that?"

"I read, Stiles. Just, call him, please?"

"Why do you have Parrish's number in your phone?" Stiles asks, thumb hovering over the call button.

"For emergencies, fortuitously as it turns out. Just _call_ Stiles!"

"Fine," Stiles says and then the phone is ringing. 

"Hi, Lydia," Parrish says, sounding unsurprised to hear from her.

"Hi, uh, Parrish? It's Stiles," he says and there's a definite pause before Parrish speaks again.

"Tell your sister she's evil," Parrish sighs.

"She's already aware. Listen, can you-?"

"I know what you're going to ask and I can't help you," Parrish cuts Stiles off to say and Stiles slumps. 

"Are you sure?"

"Placements are confidential. I could lose my job, Stiles," Parrish says and Stiles grimaces. "Look, why don't you come down to the station and we can have a talk about the avenues available to you?"

"I don't want-"

"Stiles, _listen_ to what I'm saying for once. Come down to the _station_ , okay?" Parrish persists and Stiles blinks, before he says slowly, "Oh, okay."

"I'll see you in twenty, alright?"

"Yes, thanks," Stiles says and hangs up.

*

"I saw their placement file and knew you'd be calling," Parrish says when Stiles and Lydia are sitting in front of his desk. He's got the file resting on his desk and it takes everything inside Stiles not to launch himself across the surface and snatch it up.

"I'm sorry that we're putting you in an awkward position," Stiles says, squeezing Lydia's hand when she takes his.

"It's fine. Just let me go grab the paperwork you need to file with the WPA for visitation and to arrange a hearing," Parrish says, tapping the file as he stands. "Don't look at this when I'm gone, will you?"

"Absolutely not," Stiles says and his free hand is already creeping across the desk before Parrish has cleared it. He gives Stiles an exasperated _work with me here_ look and retreats faster, guessing correctly that Stiles would have the folder open before Parrish was barely out of his eye line.

Stiles is scanning the pages when Lydia takes a fistful of his shirt and shakes him, demanding, "Well? Where are they?"

"Erica and Malia got placed together with a foster family," Stiles says, feeling inexplicably relieved. He knew that Peter wouldn't have Malia already, that he'd have to file with the WPA and it would take time but some small part of Stiles had still feared it. He knew once Peter had Malia it would be difficult to pry her free.

"The boys?" Lydia asks, looking pensive.

"Ugh, group home," Stiles says, reading further. "Scott is classed as high risk because of his age so they couldn't put him with a family and Isaac's pending placement."

"Okay, at least none of them are alone," Lydia says, but she sounds shaken and Stiles knows why. The shifter group homes have a bad reputation, mostly because only problem cases end up in them, weres with issues of aggression and instability.

Stiles grabs a post-it pad off Parrish's desk and scribbles the address of both the foster home and the group home in a messy scrawl, then slides the folder back into place. Stiles is just thinking about how hard it would be to snatch Malia and Erica and make it to the group home, maybe send Lydia to their house to grab whatever essentials they'll need but a solid hand clamps down on his shoulder.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't," Parrish says.

"I wasn't thinking anything," Stiles says, defensively. 

Parrish hands him a clipboard with a form on it and a stern look. "How about you try the legal way first, before that thing you're not thinking about, hmm?"

"There's no way the WPA are going to release them back to us," Lydia says.

"How do you know if you don't try?"

"We're underage, neither of us have what you would call a stable job, we're not shifters," Stiles ticks off on his fingers, gives a _need I go on_ wave of his hands.

"If you run, you close off the legal option forever, do you understand that? If they find you again, you won't be able to so much as visit those kids."

"I'm not leaving Scott in a group home for two years until he ages out. He's too sweet a kid, it'll change him."

"Fill out the visitation paperwork, give it a couple of days and let me see what I can do. Just... don't do anything rash yet."

"I'm not making any promises," Stiles says, but he hands off the visitation form to Lydia and she bends over it and starts filling it out studiously after giving him a wary look.

"It'd help if you had any contacts in the WPA. Is there anyone you know that would know anyone? What about Derek?"

"He's out of the picture," Stiles snaps when Lydia looks up and opens her mouth.

"Stiles," she says, admonishing.

"Trust me, he's not an option," Stiles says to her, and something in his face must tell her that he's deadly serious because her mouth firms down into a grim little line and she nods. "I can check with Ahab."

"The guy that owns that bar in the shingles?" Parrish asks, looking dubious.

"A lot of _higher class_ -" Stiles says, curling his fingers into air quotes around the second two words, "-weres still like to feel dangerous and that's where they go."

"Just, whatever you do, don't break any laws. For the next three days at least."

"Again, no promises," Stiles says with a little mock salute.

"Well, you'll need to wait till this gets processed to see the girls," Parrish says, taking the completed form back from Lydia, "The WPA will contact you with an appointment and a hearing date, but I can give you a written waiver for the group home."

"Really?" Lydia says, leaning forward. Stiles knows the feeling. He just wants to get his arms around his kids. He's not sure whether he's going to strangle or hug Scott yet, it's a toss-up. Maybe it'll be a little bit of both.

Parrish goes into a draw on his desk and plonks something down after he hands them the signed waiver. "Give 'em these. Tell them I said hi."

Stiles picks up the two little tubes Parrish has offered, sniffs one and scrunches his nose. "Wolfsbane mace?"

"Scott and Isaac are at Franklin House. Trust me, it'll come in handy," Parrish says with a grimace.

"Fantastic," Stiles sighs and pockets the mace.


	17. Chapter 17

Lydia insists they swing by Franklin house before they do anything else and Stiles doesn't fight her very hard on it. 

He's guilty, at times, of picturing life without the kids. He and Lydia would be able to go back to school, their lives no longer a constant balancing act around the needs of Scott, the twins and Malia. What stops the idle daydreams from getting any traction is that he remembers how Malia always smells sweet, like apples and she how wraps her tiny, stick-like arms so tight around his neck when she hugs him. How Scott's smile can light up a room, how Erica and Isaac are so fiercely protective of them all and any of those thoughts evaporate.

"I just keep thinking about making that bed for Malia last summer. All of us," Stiles says as Lydia drives them towards Franklin House. 

Malia had seen a race car bed in an Ikea catalog but there'd been no way they could have afforded it. He'd come home from a particularly soul-destroying shift at the Lone Wolf to find Scott, Isaac and Erica in the front yard among piles of scavenged wood and paint cans, the picture from the catalog speared on the front fence for reference.

It was basically a disaster of a project. Erica and Isaac had started painting bits before anything was prepared properly so Stiles had had to step in and sand everything back again. Then Lydia, when she'd come home, had raised a judgmental eyebrow because they'd mostly put the bed frame together without checking if it would fit up the stairs but had helped without comment to dismantle the whole thing again when they discovered that it most certainly did not.

When the thing was finished, it had as much of a drunken lean to it as the house but Malia didn't care because it had been made by her brothers and sisters and so to her it had been better than any stinky Ikea bed.

"Don't make me cry," Lydia says tersely, taking a corner with an almost vicious yank of the steering wheel so Stiles thumps his head against the passenger side window.

"Ow, sorry!" Stiles barks, swallowing down the hysterical laugh that threatens to engulf him.

"Everything's going to be fine," Lydia adds and takes her hand off the gear shift long enough to grab Stiles' and give it a squeeze.

"I know," Stiles says down to their clasped hands and by the way the squeeze almost becomes painful before she lets go, Stiles knows that neither of them particularly believe that.

They pull up to Franklin House which looks as cold and institutional as Stiles feared. There are bars on all the windows and patchy, dirty scrub surrounding the entire building. The wall facing the street has a few kids in coveralls painting over graffiti and even though there's a coat of white over the lettering already, Stiles can still clearly read _Dog Pound_.

Lydia pulls into a diagonal space at the front curb and they both make their way up the steps leading to some seriously heavy-duty looking doors. There's a few yellowed notices on the frosted glass with posted office and visiting hours. Stiles checks his watch and sees they made the weekday visiting hours with only ten minutes to spare.

"We usually stop letting visitors in half an hour before the visiting period finishes," a woman on the front desk says when Lydia hands over the waiver letter and drums her fingers on the high counter impatiently.

"Look-" Lydia says, her lips curling back, ready for a fight, but there's a commotion to the left and Stiles turns to see Scott and Isaac burst out of a door at the end of the hallway, both with their noses in the air like hunting dogs, looking ridiculous. Isaac spots them first and runs towards them, Scott fast on his heels and the woman at the desk sits back with a put-upon sigh.

"I won't be able to let you go in-" the woman starts to say, but that's when Isaac reaches them, picking Stiles clean up off his feet. Scott's there as well a moment later, picking up Lydia and then basically smooshing them all together. Stiles tries to gets his arms around everyone as much as possible, putting a smacking kiss on the side of Isaac's head and then Scott's, almost dizzy with the relief of seeing them, together and whole.

"There's a waiting room over there you can use. You have eight minutes until they have to get back to the dorms," the woman says, pointing to a door off to the side of the reception area and Stiles offers her a quick, grateful smile and manages to awkwardly shuffle everyone over and in. 

They spend another few moments just clinging together before everyone seems to detach at once, Scott and Isaac shuffling back and looking at their feet with Lydia still holding onto a handful of each of their shirts like she can't bear to let them go. 

"You both alright?" Stiles asks, trying to be as subtle as possible about the quick once-over he gives both Scott and Isaac to reassure himself.

"You know," Scott says, shrugging. "It's not home but it's not awful."

"The food's awful," Isaac grouses and Lydia lets them go for long enough to reach into her purse and bring out a handful of candy bars. Stiles blinks at her as she hands them over to Isaac and Scott who look absolutely thrilled with the unexpected bounty. 

"What? It's my personal stash. I can't exactly leave them at home with this lot-" Lydia starts to say but then her eyes go big and shiny and she takes a wobbly-sounding breath and loops her arms around Isaac's shoulders.

"Thanks, Lyds," Scott says, leaning forward to give her a peck on the cheek and she smiles at him and touches his cheek, still looking sad.

"When are you busting us out?" Isaac asks, tugging on Stiles' sleeve.

"We're not yet. We trying... legal avenues," Stiles says, grimacing as he says it. Both Isaac and Scott look dubious.

"You seen the girls?" Scott asks.

"They've been placed with a family so we have to apply to visit them," Stiles says and Lydia's arms slide down to Isaac's waist and she tugs him closer into her when his face crumples a little at that. Stiles can't remember the last time Isaac and Erica were separated for more than a few hours.

"We're getting you guys back, one way or the other," Lydia says firmly and both boys nod, looking glum.

There's a gentle tap on the door and the woman from outside pokes her head in, face apologetic. "They'll be doing a head check in a few minutes. The boys really need to be back in their dorm," she says.

"Thanks," Stiles says and wraps Scott up in another tight hug as Lydia still clings to Isaac, loathe to let either of them go. 

Twenty minutes later, they're sitting in the jeep outside a neat, single-story house with a bike discarded haphazardly on the front lawn and ruffled curtains fluttering in the front window in the day's breeze. "It looks nice," Lydia offers.

"Are you sure we can't-" Stiles starts to say, because knowing Erica and Malia are _this_ close makes it harder not to barge into the house and snatch them up. 

"You heard what Parrish said," Lydia interrupts, but then she's looking at Stiles out of the corner of her eye. "All bets are off if the legal way doesn't pan out though."

"That's my girl," Stiles says with a grin.


	18. Chapter 18

"I wish I could help you, I really do," Ahab says. He's sitting at the bar of the Lone Wolf with books and paperwork spread out all around him, a pair of half-moon glasses perched on his nose and a pen tucked behind one ear. It's a little jarring to see him like this, doing such a mundane task. Stiles has seen the Lone Wolf after closing, swept clean and empty, but it always looks terribly vulnerable when it's not full, the illusion of menace blown apart like fragile paper when the patrons aren't inside and there's daylight pressing against the painted-over front windows.

"You don't have anyone-?" Lydia starts to ask, but Ahab is already shaking his head.

"What can you tell us about Peter Hale, then?" Stiles changes track, dragging himself up to sit on the bar, his heels thumping against the scuffed wood.

"Stay away from him. His kind-"

"By _kind_ , you mean werewolves?" Stiles interrupts, stung.

"No, I don't mean werewolves. I know some very nice, salt of the earth werewolves. Peter Hale would give me the heebies even if he were human. He's a category of vicious unto himself."

"We might not have a choice," Stiles sighs, pushing his fingers through his hair in frustration. 

"Whatever he's offering, no amount of money is worth getting mixed up with him. Hell, when he books the place out I have the vamp run things because there is just some stuff even I don't want to see."

"You know Derek well?" Stiles asks and Lydia gives him a worried glance. 

"Little bit. He's been Peter's enforcer ever since he grew into his eyebrows," Ahab says and Stiles can't help but let out a little snort of a laugh at that. "He seems like a nice enough kid, if you aren't on the wrong side of Peter of course."

"Of course," Stiles sighs.

"You shouldn't get mixed up with the Hales. They've had some terrible luck and I don't just mean Peter."

Stiles opens his mouth, about to blurt that Peter is Malia's father so they're already as mixed up as they can be, but he shuts it again when he catches Lydia shake her head out of the corner of his eye. Ahab can appear to be caring and almost fatherly, but Stiles had forgotten for a second the main reason that they came to him was because Ahab trades in information. Letting him know about Peter could open them up to all kinds of trouble they aren't prepared for.

"Derek treating you okay?" Ahab asks and then smirks when Stiles looks startled. "Oh don't be so surprised I know. He followed you out of here that first night like you was holding his leash. Plus he made me drop you off the roster when Peter was hosting one of his _parties_ here. He was quite... assertive."

"He's fine," Stiles hedges and Ahab shrugs.

"Just don't turn up to work with bruises the patrons can see."

"Sure thing," Stiles says, giving Ahab a little salute and he waves them away.

"Scram, before I decide the wolfsbane tanks need scrubbing and you owe me some hours."

"Right, going now," Lydia says brightly, hopping off the bar stool she'd perched on and catching Stiles' elbow to tug him with her on her way by. 

"Hey, uh, good luck, alright?" Ahab calls to them when they're almost to the door. 

"Thanks," Stiles says, oddly touched.

*

"Because it was the WPA that took them, you'll have to appear before the WLED for the custody hearing instead of a regular court," Parrish says when they go back to the police station after visiting Ahab, hopeful that their application to see the girls had been approved. Parrish had given them an apologetic shake of the head, but even more paperwork to fill out.

"The WLED?" Stiles asks.

"The Werewolf Lore Enforcement Division. Guys, they have a cute, modern acronym but I've heard when it comes to their rulings, they can be pretty archaic."

"That's an initialism, not an acronym," Stiles says absently and Lydia elbows him in the side.

"How bad?" Lydia asks, face pensive.

"They're not big on blended families," Parrish says with a grimace and Stiles slumps back in his chair, disheartened. 

"What else?" Lydia presses, sitting forward and Stiles looks up to see Parrish's tight expression.

"Peter lodged an application with them for custody of Malia this morning. We get a copy of anything that gets sent to the WLED."

"Crap," Stiles says feelingly.

"It doesn't mean-" Parrish starts to say, but Stiles throws up a hand, stopping him.

"You've basically just told us we have a snowball's chance, don't try and sugar-coat it."

"Don't do anything you'll regret," Parrish counters. 

"Like Stiles said before, we're not making any promises," Lydia snaps, her back straight and eyes gleaming.

"Your hearing date is Thursday the twelfth. Peter can't contest your custody till then through the WLED. They'll still be with the foster family till your hearing date. These things move slowly and sometimes... that can be to your advantage."

"Don't you do anything _you'll_ regret," Stiles says, standing and collecting the new set of paperwork they'd been given. 

"I just don't want you, uh, you _guys_ to disappear on me," he says, looking down.

"You're going to make someone who is much less of a dumb punk than I am very happy some day," Stiles says, reaching over to squeeze Parrish's shoulder. He gets a dry, brittle smile in return.

"I'll see you guys on the twelfth?" Parrish presses.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles sighs.


	19. Chapter 19

"What are you doing in here?"

Stiles had come home and thought he was alone, only to find Lydia in Malia's room lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

"Did you know there are swear words written on Malia's ceiling?" Lydia asks.

"Heh, oh yeah. I spotted them a little while ago. I asked Scott about them because obviously it wasn't Malia that wrote them up there and he said it was the twins' way of teaching Malia to read better. They told her she could say whatever she could sound out."

"Is that why we spent that lovely month with Malia sounding like that kid from the Kickass movies?" Lydia asks, sitting up.

"I was going to get angry at them, but you gotta admit, her reading did improve a _lot_ ," Stiles says, feeling such a swell of fondness and also such an ache of _loss_ that it almost takes his knees out. He leans more heavily on the door jamb and rubs a hand over his face.

"Why the word _pumpernickel_ though?" Lydia says, squinting upwards.

"Well, either that was them messing with her, or it's slang for something. If it's the latter, I really don't want to know."

"Kids today, right?" Lydia sighs.

"Yeah."

"We're going to get them back, aren't we?" Lydia asks and Stiles crosses the room and sits on the bed next to her. It creaks ominously and Stiles freezes, hands up and out like he's getting ready to jump clear any moment. "We're lucky Malia's a were. I'd be worried about her getting tetanus off this thing if she wasn't."

"We're getting them back," Stiles says when the bed doesn't collapse from underneath them.

"We're going before a _traditional_ werewolf tribunal and we're human. Even if we get Scott and the twins back, they'll take Peter's side over ours for Malia."

"Don't be so defeatist."

"You mean realistic," Lydia huffs. "We should go get them _now_."

"I hate to admit it, but Parrish was right. We've gotta try doing the right thing for once in our lives and have faith that it will work out."

"With our track record?"

"Hey, we've been pretty lucky," Stiles says. When Lydia gives him a disbelieving eyebrow raise, Stiles fans his hands out and shrugs. 

"I guess," Lydia finally relents, slumping sideways into Stiles. He drops his arm over her shoulders and gives her a squeeze. 

"This could have happened a _lot_ earlier, when we wouldn't have had a legal leg to stand on. At least now we have a chance. Those kids are happy and healthy and they _want_ to be with us. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"Maybe we should try to find our dad," Lydia says, bringing the badge out from a pocket in her skirt and holding it contemplatively.

"Lydia, c'mon. Why invite trouble?"

"He could-"

"Swoop in and save the day? That stuff only happens in the movies."

Lydia tilts away from him and gives Stiles a searching look. "You're hoping that Derek will do that though, right? Find a way to redeem himself."

"He won't."

"Who's being defeatist now?"

"Even if he... I don't know, _changed his mind_ or whatever, he still betrayed us. Who knows what kind of dirt he gave Peter to use against us."

There's a knock at the door and Stiles groans and drops his head into his hands before pushing to his feet. "With the way our month's going, that'll be the County Sheriff with our eviction notice," Lydia says faux brightly, slapping Stiles on the butt for good measure.

"Don't even say that," Stiles scolds, knocking on Lydia's head. She bats his hand away and makes a shooing motion with her hands.

"If it's Jackson I'm not here," she says.

"You're off-again?"

"You know what he said when I told him they'd taken the kids? Good, Stiles. He said _good_."

"Okay, I have my problems with Jackson, but I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it except that he would get to see you more and you wouldn't have to work so hard."

"I _know_ that," Lydia says archly. "Doesn't mean he gets out of being punished though."

"Fair," Stiles says and then drags himself back down the stairs, only to be relieved to see the shadow of Boyd's reassuring bulk through the door.

"Hi, how are you?" Stiles asks when he pulls the door open. 

"I heard about what happened. I'm sorry," Boyd says.

"Why, did you call the WPA on us?" Stiles says. "Oh no, I was _kidding_. Stop doing that with your face."

"You've been good neighbors and good friends. Sometimes you're a little loud, and I don't even want to know why there are kid's toys in my bathroom most of the time and Malia with the digging in my garden, what is she even looking for?"

"Isaac and Erica told her you were a pirate before you moved in next door to us and that there's treasure back there," Stiles says, grimacing.

"Anyway," Boyd says and thrusts a stack of paper at Stiles. "I thought you might need this."

"What-?" Stiles starts to ask and then his mouth falls open. "Boyd, this is a W-2. This is a W-2 with my name on it for your garage."

"I'm not sure if it'll be the same for a hearing about werewolves, but when I got custody of my sister Alicia, I had to prove that I could provide a stable environment for her. You know, a home, that I had a full time job." Boyd flicks the pages in Stiles' hands.

"I don't know what to say. _Thank you_ ," Stiles says, throwing his arms around Boyd. 

"Hey, it's fine. I mean, I was going to ask you anyway."

"Ask what?"

"We're getting busier at the garage. I'm finally able to take on another employee and I know you don't mind getting dirty and you're good with your hands-"

"Heh."

" _Stiles_ ," Boyd says, but the exasperation is fond.

"Wait, are you offering me a job? A real job?"

"I know it's not the most glamorous job in the world-"

"Are you freakin _kidding_ me? I've been pulling god knows what out of the drains at The Firestick since I was sixteen and getting slobbered on at the Lone Wolf since I was seventeen. I will scrub your toilets if that's the only thing on offer to get away from both places."

"It won't be as much as I'm sure you make at the Lone Wolf."

"Ahab won't mind me picking up the odd shift if I need it there for extra, but a steady paycheck is better than a good night at the Lone Wolf, followed by a week of nothing. Besides, I'm not as young and slinky as I used to be."

"I'm sure you're fine," Boyd says with a snort.

"This is above and beyond, man. I don't know how to thank you."

"I've also got a few friends at the Small Business Association that want Lydia to come and look at their books too after she worked her magic with mine. She cleaned up the mess mine were in and I didn't think it was possible. She's a whiz."

"She sure is. She makes our ends meet even when they're this far apart," Stiles says, holding his hands about two feet away from each other.

"Let me know if I can do anything else," Boyd offers with a wave as he jogs back down the porch steps.

"Seriously, man. Thanks again."

"Let me know when the stuff is sorted with the kids and we can talk about you starting at the garage."

Stiles offers Boyd a salute as he reaches his own fence and pushes through it. Lydia is behind him when he closes the door again.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

"Everything's coming up Millhouse."

"You're so weird."


	20. Chapter 20

Stiles puts on his only suit. It's ridiculously snug considering the last time he had occasion to wear it was his mother's funeral. He gets depressed just looking at himself in the mirror and Lydia and Boyd's sister Alicia are in his bedroom doorway shaking their heads shortly after. 

"Jackson, it's me. Yes, I know you didn't mean it, want to make it up to me?" Lydia says into her phone and that's how half an hour later Stiles is in one of Jackson's suits, looking like a proper adult.

"Much better," Alicia decides, straightening his collar. Boyd appears in the doorway and gives him a nod which reassures Stiles more than any words, especially since Boyd had been through the whole process before, just on the more human side.

"Can I fix his hair?" Jackson whines.

"He's fine," Lydia scolds, but she's holding Jackson's hand and Stiles doesn't mind so much for once. They can use all the support they can get.

"He doesn't look fine. He looks like a startled hedgehog."

"This is the one day I'm going to make you be nice to my brother," Lydia says, flicking Jackson in the forehead. "You can resume hostilities tomorrow."

"He's wearing my suit. I'd say that's pretty nice of me."

"Jackson."

"Fine. It looks good, if startled hedgehog was what you were going for."

"That was exactly what I was going for," Stiles says agreeably, then lets Alicia fuss with his tie until it's sitting straight and accepts the gentle shoulder squeeze Boyd offers.

"We'll see you there?" Boyd says, herding Alicia out the door.

"Guess so," Stiles nods. Jackson's second good deed of the day is to take them to the hearing in his Porsche so they don't have to roll up in Stiles' jeep. Stiles loves his jeep, but he can admit that at a glance it doesn't scream _responsible_. The Porsche doesn't exactly do that either, but it also doesn't belch smoke if it idles too long or have tape holding one of the headlights in place so Stiles will take what he can get.

Stiles had made fun of it, but he'd give anything to be getting into Derek's Toyota right about now.

"Stop thinking about _him_ ," Lydia says, narrowing her eyes at Stiles once they're on their way.

"I wasn't... how would you know?" Stiles says. He and Lydia might be twins, but they've never really had the telepathic connection that Isaac and Erica seem to. They've never had their own language, dressed alike or even seemed to be vaguely on the same page about any number of topics. Stiles is pretty sure they would have been elbowing each other for space in the womb. 

Lydia gets him though, like no one else will ever be able to and Stiles slumps down in the seat. "Sorry, it's just..." Stiles makes a helpless gesture with his hands. "I keep having these circular thoughts, like, _how could he_ but then, _how could I_ and so on and on and on."

"He fooled us all, Stiles. We all wanted him to be a good guy."

"I thought he was a douche," Jackson offers from the driver's seat and Lydia doesn't even look when she punches him solidly in the arm.

When they pull up, Stiles isn't sure what he was expecting, but it isn't the unassuming building that looks like every other courthouse in the country. He thought there'd be maybe a little more pomp and circumstance and while the entryway floors are marble, there's a spareness to the place, almost institutional. There's no giant statues of snarling wolves, no threatening werewolf sentries doing security checks. There's a bored-looking guy who passes a metal detector over him and then another equally bored one that gives him a thorough sniffing after reading a formal consent card about said sniff-test that Stiles has to verbally agree to.

"Clear and concise consent," Stiles hears Lydia mutter under her breath and the guy sniffing Stiles gives her a sharp look.

"Room Three," Lydia says after she unfolds a piece of paper from the packet Parrish had given them and points down the hallway. 

There are a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs bolted to the floor outside their designated room and Parrish is sitting on one of them. He gets up as they approach, offering a small, dorky wave that makes Stiles smile for the first time that morning. Even though Tuesdays are his rostered days off, Parrish is wearing his uniform.

"There a problem officer?" Stiles asks, going for jovial and missing by a mile.

"Just thought it might be more impressive giving you guys a character reference in the uniform," Parrish says, shrugging and passing a self-conscious hand down his front, starting to blush.

"Oh wow, that's... we weren't expecting-"

"No, I know. You wouldn't have asked but I'm hoping it will help."

"Of course it will. We're very grateful," Lydia gushes, stepping away from Jackson so she can hook a small hand into Parrish's elbow and give him a side-hug. They're both still smiling at Parrish when Stiles feels something wrap around his legs. He looks down and the next thing he knows he's clutching Malia to himself, her wild hair in his mouth and her arms and legs wrapped so tight around him that Stiles is pretty sure his spine creaks. He couldn't care less though, just breathes in the sweetness of her, almost intoxicated by it.

He finally pushes Malia's hair out of his eyes enough to see Lydia has her arms around both Erica and Isaac who are clutching at each other. Scott is standing aside a little, wringing his hands, so Stiles puts a hand out to him and reels him in, Malia's skinny arms hooking around both their necks and bonking their heads together almost painfully.

"Ow, watch it!" Scott says with a laugh as he steps back and straightens his shirt. There's a woman in a plain suit with a neat bun standing a little further down the hallway, looking professional and patient and Stiles figures she must be the WPA case worker.

"Thanks for bringing them, Miss...?" Stiles says.

"Yukimura, and they're required to be here," she responds but then her professional facade breaks and she says a little quieter, "You have another few minutes before we have to go in," before she steps back even further and puts her attention on her phone to give them the illusion of privacy.

Parrish has also stepped away, meeting Boyd and Alicia as they approach and Stiles takes the opportunity to gather everyone to him, uncaring how awkward it is or who's elbow he gets jabbed by. They finally break apart again, Malia still clinging to his leg and he leans down to rub the skirt of her dress between his fingers. "This is nice."

Malia pulls a face. "It's scratchy. They wouldn't let me wear my jeans."

Stiles smiles at her. The last time they'd wrestled Malia into a dress, she'd been on flower girl duty for Alicia's wedding. She'd kicked up such a fuss about it that Alicia herself had come in and then with a determined look had disappeared again, bringing back a page boy about the same size as Malia. The boy had only been too happy to swap with Malia, spinning delightedly in the dress and Malia had looked adorable in the miniature suit, trailing rose petals down the aisle at the church.

Scott, Isaac and Erica all start growling when Stiles is distracted trying to stop Malia from kicking out of her shoes and he looks up and freezes. There's an older man in a button-down shirt open at the collar and grey slacks talking quietly to Yukimura, shaking her hand and smiling so his eyes crinkle. 

At his shoulder, is Derek.

Derek and the man who must be Peter Hale pass close to them on their way into the hearing room. Peter offers a smarmy little grin to Stiles and Lydia in turn, but Derek doesn't even spare them so much as a glance. When they're through the doors, Stiles asks Yukimura if they have another minute and after she checks her watch and nods, Stiles escapes to the closest bathroom he can find to try and pull himself together.

He's leaning over the sink with the cold faucet turned all the way on to disguise his quiet freak-out from any werewolves outside when he feels a small hand on his back. He turns, expecting it to be Lydia, but it's Erica standing behind him. She's also in a dress he's never seen before, her hair neatly pinned away from her face and her eyes free of the heavy makeup she'd decided she couldn't leave the house without the year before.

"You knew he was going to be here... didn't you?" she asks, looking uncertain. 

He did, is the the thing. The problem is, there was some small, jerky, monumentally stupid part of himself deep down that thought Derek would be there for _them_. That he'd be standing up and telling all who would listen that his Uncle was a bad guy who didn't deserve to lay a single paw on Malia. Stiles feels like an idiot for it, for thinking that Derek _wouldn't_ be showing up on Peter's right hand, looking like he belongs there.

He's fallen for Derek, harder than he'd realized and it took Derek showing up with Peter to admit it to himself. 

He was his mother, through and through. One bad decision after another that hurt everyone around them.

"I know it sucks, but you have to do this," Erica says, her face filling with the same grim determination he's seen on Lydia so many times, the exact same expression she'd been wearing when they'd been left alone to take care of this bunch of kids, fourteen years old and scared to death. 

The bathroom door hinges open gently and Lydia pokes her head in. "We have to go in," she says and Stiles nods, takes the hand that Erica offers him and then drops his other arm over Lydia's shoulders when they're back in the hallway.


	21. Chapter 21

The hearing room is large, with a small public seating area and a long table up the front with three chairs behind it. There are three desk name plates in front of the seats, left to right with _Alpha Wenman_ , _Alpha Hendersen_ and _Alpha Virnig_ engraved on them. Derek and Peter are sitting on the right side of the small aisle between the chairs in the front row, the cluster of Stiles' small family on the left side with Boyd, Alicia, Jackson and Parrish behind them. Malia is bracketed by Scott and Isaac. When they enter, Isaac is intently braiding the mane of Malia's horse Whinny with Malia supervising with a critical eye. 

Stiles moves to take the aisle seat, but Lydia shunts him along so she's the one playing physical barrier between their family and the Hales. Erica drops into the last chair left vacant on the other side and clasps hands with Isaac when he hands Whinny back to Malia. 

There's a man in a crisp security uniform standing just off to the side of the long table at the front. When everyone is settled, he clears his throat and then says, "Please all rise for Alphas Wenman, Hendersen and Virnig." Three werewolves enter the room when they're all standing, first a man in what Stiles would guess would be his late fifties with silver hair and broad shoulders, another man, older still, with hard features and a coarse-looking beard and then a woman with startling blue eyes. 

"You may be seated," the uniformed man on the side announces when Hendersen gives him a small nod. Another younger man, what must be some kind of file clerk, enters from the same door as the Alphas and takes his spot at a tiny table set next to the wall. He has a stack of folders in his arms that he sets down carefully on his table and then places a blue stone beside them which glows faintly.

Stiles is tempted to steal a glance at Derek during all of this, but when he moves to do it, Lydia shifts with him, shooting him a stern sideways glance while deftly blocking him. Although he's loathe to admit it, she's right to stop him torturing himself and Stiles subsides.

"Let's get started," Hendersen says briskly, no-nonsense and less formal than Stiles was expecting. There's the quiet sound of the doors at the back opening and closing as Yukimura enters with what looks like another security guard and they take two seats at the back on the Stilinski side. 

The clerk at the small table stands and approaches the Alphas with the top few folders from his stack. "Three petitions for custody in regards to Scott McCall, Isaac Lahey, Erica Lahey and Malia Hale."

"Thank you Neil-"

"Stilinski!" Stiles blurts and feels Lydia's hand clamp down on his forearm, but he can't help himself as Hendersen looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's Malia _Stilinski_ ," Stiles repeats.

"The filed paperwork has her surname as Hale."

"Her birth certificate says _Stilinski_ ," Stiles insists, unwilling to let it go and jutting his chin. 

Hendersen sighs and looks at the clerk. "Note that correction."

"Yes, Alpha Hendersen."

"There's also only two petitions," Stiles presses. "Lydia and I should only be one and then Peter-"

"There are three petitions for custody that we're reviewing," Hendersen says, flipping through the folders. 

"No, but-" Stiles starts to argue, feeling cold all over but Hendersen gives him a sharp look.

"Mr Stilinski, is it?" At Stiles' nod, he continues, "I'm sure we all want these matters resolved as expediently as possible and that will _not_ be the case if you continue to interrupt this hearing. I can assure you, it will not help your cause."

"I'm sorry, but who-?" Stiles starts to ask again, now on his feet but Lydia yanks him back into his chair and says, "We're very sorry. Won't happen again."

"Fine, thank you. Now, after the WPA received reports of neglect, these children were removed from your home. There is no dispute to that, is there?"

"There was no neglect," Scott says, frowning hard. His voice is a quiet grumble that Stiles only barely catches, but because he's in a room with mostly werewolves they all look his way.

"We will be getting to that," Virnig says, offering Scott a reassuring nod and then inclining her head at Hendersen to continue.

"Stiles and Lydia Stilinski, you wish to assume formal custody of all four children, correct?"

"Yes, your honor," Stiles says.

"Alpha Hendersen is fine," Hendersen corrects.

"Yes, Alpha Hendersen," Stiles repeats. 

"Little young to want that kind of responsibility, aren't you? I have a daughter your age and she's currently backpacking around Europe and having the time of her life."

"These are our kids."

"Normally this would be more straight forward. We would set up a series of monitored visits after which time we would reevaluate your suitability and then grant you custody if all went well. However, there are two counter-claims to your custody that have been lodged with us and these have to be reviewed to see if they supersede yours. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Stiles says. 

"Firstly, there _are_ a number of troubling incidents in your file that we must take into account. There was a recorded biting-"

"The bitten kid was fine," Lydia counters immediately.

"Be that as it may, there was a formal complaint filed with the WLED. Did you know that?"

Lydia and Stiles both shake their heads. They'd written the stupid apology letter they'd been asked to and even scraped up the money for the completely unnecessary testing the Temins' had insisted on. They'd been told that would be the end of it. Stiles has the urge to punch something, preferably the Temins' in their stupid, self-satisfied faces.

"There's also concern that as humans, you cannot give were children all that they need to ensure they are productive and _safe_ members of society."

"They've been registered at the Pack Planning Center for that reason," Stiles says.

"As a direct result of which led to Scott McCall receiving an illegal tattoo," Wenman pipes up for the first time to say with a judgmental shake of his head.

"His sponsor took him. A _werewolf_ ," Stiles says sharply.

"Which you did not ever meet, nor personally vet, because you weren't there," Wenman says with his lips pulled back almost in a sneer. 

"Perhaps if there was a more inclusive-" Stiles starts to argue but Hendersen puts up a hand and Stiles lapses into disgruntled silence.

"We're getting off track. One of the counter-claims is for Malia Hale, I'm sorry, Malia Stilinski only, is that correct?" Hendersen says, attention swinging to Peter.

"She's my daughter." Peter stands, clasps his hands in front of him and looks earnestly at all three of the werewolves at the front of the room in turn. "I only discovered her existence a scant few months ago."

"Why have you waited until now to seek custody?" Hendersen asks.

"I didn't want to disrupt her life if I could help it. I wanted to time my approach carefully so as not to traumatize her in the least. When I heard, however, that she had been removed by the WPA from her current home, I knew I had to step in."

"I understand," Hendersen says and he sounds like he's _buying_ it and Stiles can't handle it.

"You weren't interested in her till now. It's just some kind of a whim, isn't it?" Stiles barks, incensed.

Before Peter can answer, Wenman interjects with another almost-sneer. "Werewolves work a little _differently_ to humans. According to our files the advocate for your children that allowed them to attend the Pack Planning Center in the first place was Derek Hale, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but-"

" _Derek_ Hale taking an interest is _Peter_ Hale taking an interest as far as we're concerned because they're pack. You can't deny that Derek Hale has been a part of the children's lives for-" Wenman reaches across Hendersen to retrieve the file and flip it open but Stiles doesn't let him finish.

"I'm not denying that he was part of their lives," Stiles grits out.

"I would say Peter Hale was acting in _consideration_ of you in regards to Malia. It seems the reverse cannot be said to be true," Wenman says, eyes narrowed. 

"Gus, that's enough," Hendersen interjects, taking the file back from Wenman with a small, tight frown.

"He's gotta have a record at least," Stiles says, flipping a hand at Peter. The werewolf had unsettled Ahab which meant he must have been into some dark stuff. 

" _He_ doesn't," Wenman scoffs. "You on the other hand?" Wenman snaps fingers at the clerk who brings him up another, thicker-looking folder. "Public intoxication, disorderly conduct, _public urination_ -"

"All those charges were dropped," Parrish interjects, standing.

"Ah, yes, well, it helps to have a _friend_ on the force," Wenman says and now his sneer is full-force and Stiles feels his stomach drop. In one fell swoop, with insinuation clear in his tone, Wenman has just discredited their best character witness. Wenman's gaze flicks to Peter and away and Stiles feels rage, pure and hot, bubble through him, because he doesn't miss the smug look that passes between them. Stiles feels like he's stumbled straight into a trap, managing to do most of Peter's dirty work for him by bringing the subject up.

They should have taken all the kids and run when they'd had the chance. Stiles risks a glance back at Parrish who looks pained, but also gives him a tiny head shake. 

_Don't do anything stupid_.

Stiles looks at Derek then, he can't help himself. Even now, even betrayed, he still seeks out Derek for help but there isn't any forthcoming. Derek has his head bowed, eyes on his hands, fingers linked together. He looks relaxed, almost like he's falling asleep while Stiles' life is falling apart.

The anger drains out of Stiles all at once, leaving him feeling defeated and sad and so very, very tired. 

Stiles sits, helpless. Lydia presses into him from one side and Scott the other but he can't seem to find comfort in their touch. He glances at Malia who's making Whinny trot up and down Isaac's arm, humming to herself. Even though she's _right there_ , Stiles feels like she's already been torn away from him.

Hendersen clears his throat, face still mostly taken over by a frown. Virnig is looking between Wenman and Peter with a dent of disapproval between her eyebrows. 

"I think we should take a small recess," Virnig proposes and while Wenman doesn't look exactly pleased at the prospect, Hendersen nods in quick agreement. 

"Fifteen minutes," he declares and stands. Wenman is forced to follow when Virnig does and he's practically herded out of the room.

"Stiles?" He looks up at the pleasant baritone to see Peter standing just on the other side of Lydia, smiling at them pleasantly. Lydia looks like she's barely restraining herself from launching at him, nails drawn. 

"What?" Stiles grits out, a low, menacing thrum that any werewolf would be proud of. He can feel Scott bristle beside him, moving bodily so he's between Peter and the rest of the kids. 

"I just wanted to reassure you that I would never deprive Malia of her family. You'll be welcome to see her... afterwards. Whenever you like." Peter's offer sounds almost genuine, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes which are cold and calculating. 

"I would tell you the same thing, but you know when humans are lying, don't you?" Stiles says, forcing his own smile onto his face for the benefit of Yukimura who is still in the room, talking quietly with the man sitting next to her.

The stand-off probably would have lasted the entire break, Stiles and Peter staring each other while everyone else was frozen, except that right at that moment Malia's toy horse comes sailing past Stiles' ear and hits Peter right in the middle of the forehead.

"Poop face!" Malia screeches, brandishing her little fists and hurling herself at Peter. Scott catches her around the middle and she flails, still growling, shifting back and forth like her anger is making the shift uncontrollable. She's still snarling and hiccuping in distress as Scott and Lydia hustle her up the aisle and out of the room, Yukimura and the security guard's eyes following their progress, both looking troubled before Yukimura pats the security guard on the shoulder and follows them out.

Peter is still wearing a look of surprise that would be comical in any other circumstance as Stiles gathers the rest of the kids and breaks for the door.

*

Stiles finds Lydia outside, hunkered down with her back braced on a column and Malia curled up on her lap. Stiles had thought Malia had been oblivious to what was happening but by the way she's still sniffling and pressing her face into a clump of Lydia's hair, she knows more than they could have imagined.

The rest of the kids are clustered at the bottom stairs, each with a shoulder pressed or hand clasped on each other.

"Stiles, let's just go," Lydia says, fisting a hand in Stiles' pants at the knee and tugging. "This is... I don't... I don't know what this is but it's not good."

"You mean how Peter's either paid Wenman off outright or they're friends or something?" Stiles says.

"That means a _third_ of the people deciding the fate of our kids is biased. Stiles, we should just _go_ ," Lydia insists.

"I don't think we can," Stiles says and when Lydia opens her mouth to protest, Stiles inclines his head at Jackson's Porsche where it's parked at the curb. Yukimura is standing in front of it on her phone again, looking like she's not paying them any mind, but Stiles is certain he'd passed her in the hall on his way out of the building and he hadn't seen her follow them out the doors. 

Stiles is pretty sure she's not a were of any kind, but she's _something_ and it seems the WPA doesn't mess around in their choice of case workers.

"If he... we'll never... I don't care what he says," Lydia grates out, careful not to say anything specific that might upset Malia and the other kids more.

"If that happens, I'll make Ahab give us a _name_. I'll make him give us a name even he would hesitate to use," Stiles says, straightening and looking at Yukimura. She looks back impassively, a thumb still brushing her phone screen but now she's not pretending to pay attention to it anymore.

"Who do you think the third petition is from?"

"Don't know. Probably some werewolf advocacy group that thinks humans shouldn't raise werewolves," Stiles says, shrugging. He's still looking at Yukimura and she now tilts her head, expression going contemplative. Her shoes are flat and practical and Stiles probably wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't staring but the jacket she's wearing, part of an otherwise unassuming suit, is sitting a little funny, like maybe there's something under it. 

"Great, that's all we need," Lydia huffs. 

"Can we go home?" Malia asks, her voice muffled a little because she's still pressing her face into Lydia's hair.

"Soon," Stiles says absently, without even thinking about it. Lydia socks him in the thigh and he looks down at her. "Ow! What?"

Lydia tilts her head at Malia and then shakes it, mouth a grim little line. 

_Don't make promises you can't keep_.

"It's-" Stiles starts to say but his phone vibrates in his pocket. He digs it out and looks at it, sees there's a message from an unknown number.

_Everything's going to be okay_

Stiles snorts and shows Lydia the message. "I think Parrish is trying to be reassuring or something. Or he thinks we're going to make a break for it."

"That was Parrish?" Lydia says, tilting her head and frowning.

"I guess?" Stiles says, although it doesn't really matter. All the false platitudes in the world aren't going to help him now, no matter where they're from.

"We should get back in... if we're going?" Scott says, jogging up to them and then angling himself towards Jackson's car, like he's thinking what Lydia had been thinking. Yukimura is gone, Stiles didn't even see her go, but he knows she won't be far away.

"Right," Stiles says, reaching out to smooth down Scott's shirt and then ruffle an affectionate hand through his hair. Scott ducks him, complaining and it's so achingly familiar and _normal_ that Stiles forgets for just a split second where they are and what they're doing.


	22. Chapter 22

Wenman's name plate is turned down on its face when they get back inside and Stiles and Lydia pass a loaded look between them before herding the kids back to their seats. Peter and Derek are still in their places but now Peter has swiveled into Derek, his eyebrows drawn down and saying something Derek obviously doesn't like if the way he's leaning back from Peter is any indication. 

"All rise for Alphas Hendersen and Virnig," the same uniformed guard from before announces and they stand as the two Alphas enter, followed out by the clerk. Hendersen passes a hand through his hair as he sits and on the back of his hand is a fine spray of red that he seems to only notice when he brings his hand back down. He frowns at it and then gestures at the clerk who darts forward with a packet of wet wipes and offers one.

"Alpha Wenman is currently indisposed and will not be returning," Hendersen says, calmly scrubbing at his hand, eyes flicking up to Peter and then back down. 

"Isn't there a requirement for three-?" Peter starts to protest but Virnig holds a hand up, cutting him off.

"Two is sufficient. We will request a new representative to consult only if we find ourselves at an impasse."

"I really don't think-" Peter starts to huff, indignant but Derek puts a hand on his shoulder and Peter purses his lips and nods stiffly.

"Let's review the third petition, shall we?" Virnig says to Hendersen and he nods, scooping up another folder.

"Alpha Stilinski?" he calls, looking up, eyes at the back of the room.

Lydia's hand clamps down on Stiles' forearm so hard he'll have tiny, finger-shaped bruises the next day. She lets out a little moan of denial and turns stricken eyes on Stiles, before they both turn in their seats as one to see what they thought was a security guard sitting with Yukimura stand and straighten his shirt.

The man shuffles sideways into the aisle between the rows of chairs and moves forward. Now Stiles is looking at him properly, he can see that the uniform he's wearing isn't a security guard's. There's a patch on his shoulder with _Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department_ picked out in neat little yellow stitches and a badge on his chest that's almost identical to the one Derek had dug out of the wall at their house. He's old-style Hollywood action movie handsome, just a little weathered around the edges and Stiles knows, even though he's not sure how apart from hearing the name, that this man is a werewolf.

He's also their father.

The man halts halfway up the aisle and stands with his legs slightly apart and a relaxed crinkle around his eyes. He's looking forward, an air of calm about him as he says, "Please call me Sheriff, everyone does."

"Very well," Hendersen agrees. "You've made a claim of custody under the Pack Lineage Act?"

"I have," the Sheriff confirms. "Claudia Stilinski was still married to me at the time of her-" If Stiles wasn't watching the man so intently, he might've missed the minute tightness to the Sheriff's face before he says, "-death. Therefore I recognize the children she had as part of my pack and accept all due legal and emotional responsibility until they reach legal age." The Sheriff has a manila folder that he holds up. The clerk darts forward to grab it, flicking through it quickly before he gives the two Alphas a nod and returns to his smaller desk to add it to the piles of papers he already has there.

"You're not claiming that any of the children are biologically yours?"

"The ones under dispute, no," the Sheriff says with a shake of his head. "The only ones that actually belong to me are Lydia and Stiles," he adds, sneaking a quick glance at them with an unreadable expression.

"We can recognize the Pack Lineage claim without dispute for Scott, Isaac and Erica. However, there is a possible Pack Lineage claim on the paternal side for Malia. The Alpha of the Hale pack would need to relinquish this for your petition to be successful."

Peter, who's been looking tense, now relaxes into his chair as Virnig's gaze flicks from the Sheriff to the Hale side of the room and asks, "Is the Alpha of the Hale pack here?"

"He is," Peter says and motions towards Derek, who stands.

Derek takes a deep breath and then says formally, "I, Derek Hale, Alpha of the Hale pack, hereby relinquish all claim to Malia _Stilinski_. I unbond her."

"What?" Peter roars, jumping to his feet, his eyes blazing blue.

"Well, that makes this very easy," Hendersen says, nodding.

"What the hell are you doing?" Peter rages, turning on Derek. 

"The right thing," Derek says with a shrug, unmoved.

"Mr Hale, you will resume your seat or you will be escorted from this room," Virnig warns, eyes shifting red.

"Like hell-" Peter starts to say, turning back to the two Alphas but there's a blur of movement and faster than Stiles can track how it happens, Peter is on his back with Yukimura standing over him, holding a sword to his throat. Yukimura is glowing, the outline of a fox picked out in orange light surrounding her whole body. 

She smiles down at Peter, the tip of her sword nudging the point of his chin. "This is me asking you to take your seat again _politely_. Do you want to see me ask another way?" 

Peter snarls, but when Yukimura steps away from him, he scuttles back to his seat. 

"Apologies," Yukimura says to the Alphas with a demure nod and her sword disappears under her jacket again as she smooths her hair down, suddenly looking as normal as she had originally. She takes the seat behind Peter and smiles benignly at the back of his head, before she flicks a glance at Stiles and Lydia and winks.

"I thought today was going to be a relatively boring day," Hendersen muses, shaking his head, before his attention returns to Stiles and Lydia. "I'm sorry, but while I acknowledge that your siblings were very lucky to have you, I cannot ignore a Pack Lineage claim that is so clear-cut."

"Wait," Stiles blurts, his heart in his throat. "Wait, no, wait-"

"I know it's not what you want, but all I can give you is my admiration," Hendersen continues, then closes the folders in front of him with an air of finality.

"No, this-" Lydia starts to protest.

"We approve the petition in regards to Scott McCall, Isaac Lahey, Erica Lahey and Malia Stilinski submitted by Alpha Stilinski," Hendersen proclaims, passing all the folders to the clerk who raises the glowing blue stone by his hand and sweeps it over them, nodding.

"No, you can't-" Stiles beseeches, throwing his arms out, like blocking the kids physically could stop anyone taking them away from him. 

"I had another matter, not sure if this is the right place to bring it up?" the Sheriff interrupts, taking another couple of steps forward. 

"What is it?" Hendersen asks.

"I need to register an Emissary and a Guardian to my pack. Can I do that here?"

"It's pretty irregular, but I'm sure we can accommodate you given the circumstances," Hendersen says, gesturing at the clerk who starts furiously flicking through his piles of papers before he nods and gives a thumb's up.

"Great. I would like to name Stiles Stilinski as Emissary and Lydia Stilinski as Guardian for the Stilinski pack. This, of course, means they must assume responsibility for all members of the pack under legal age and are recognized by the WLED as having all rights to make decisions for those members of the pack. If they're willing to assume that responsibility, of course. Coincidentally enough, the only members of my pack under legal age at the moment are Scott McCall, Isaac and Erica Lahey and Malia _Stilinski_."

Stiles fish-mouths at the man for a moment. He feels like he has emotional whip lash and again, his eyes dart to Derek automatically, helpless. This time though Derek is looking back at him and he raises his eyebrows and nods emphatically.

"Yes!" Lydia saves them both by blurting. "I... we, yes! What he said, yes!"

"Alright then. We officially recognize Stiles and Lydia Stilinski as Emissary and Guardian of the Stilinski pack," Hendersen pronounces and the blue stone glows again. Stiles feels something tighten in his chest for a moment but then it's gone and Hendersen slices through his daze by saying, "You can take your kids home now."

"What-?" Stiles starts to blurt but he's suddenly on the floor underneath a bunch of crying, laughing werewolves and Lydia and he can't breath and he can't imagine anywhere else he'd rather be.

*

Yukimura had approached them when they were still in a tight huddle of disbelief and joy, apologetic but firm. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's some paperwork you need to fill out before I can let you go."

Stiles and Lydia are now sitting in a small, plain room the next floor up from the hearing area. They'd both been loathe to let the kids out of their sight, but Boyd, Parrish, Jackson and Alicia are with them so they know the kids are safe. They're sitting at the single table in the room, opposite Sheriff Stilinski who is dutifully flicking through a stack of pages that Yukimura had handed off before abandoning them with a, "Sign where the sticky tabs are. _Only_ where the sticky tabs are."

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times while the Sheriff flips through pages and starts signing. He has hundreds, maybe _thousands_ of questions, so many they're getting clogged in his throat and nothing is making it out. He looks at Lydia whose eyes are tracking all over the room, before bouncing back unerringly to the Sheriff. She's holding onto Stiles' thumb, the only outward sign of her discomfort.

The Sheriff signs another page with a flourish and sits back, shaking his hand out. "Ugh, bureaucracy," he huffs.

"Where... how... where...?" Stiles starts lamely, not able to finish a single coherent thought.

"I'm sorry," the Sheriff interrupts, holding a hand up, gaze firm on Stiles. "But _god_ you look like your mother."

Stiles flinches back a little, uncertain how to take that and the Sheriff's face falls. 

"Who do I look like?" Lydia asks, sounding more tentative than Stiles has ever heard her. He's relieved for the distraction, for the Sheriff's attention to move to Lydia because Stiles is dangerously close to bursting into ugly, racking, uncontrollable sobs and he really doesn't want to do that.

The Sheriff tilts his head, smile lines carving deep around his eyes and expression gentle. "You look just like my mother when she was younger. I think I have a picture of her at home with that _exact_ same hair, I kid you not."

Lydia relaxes a little against Stiles, letting go of his thumb.

"Where have you _been_?" Stiles blurts. It's probably the least embarrassing question clamoring to get out of his mouth. There were others, like, _did you not love us_ or _what did we do wrong_ and most importantly, _are you a bad guy_?

"Stiles!" Lydia hisses but the Sheriff just nods, abandoning the pen so he can rest his hands on the table and give them his full attention.

"That's completely fair. I imagine that's just the first and most pressing of a bunch of questions you have for me."

"We've been looking after those kids since we were fourteen. Did you know that?"

"I didn't. I wish I did. Trust me when I say it was more complicated than you can imagine."

Stiles lets out a disgusted snort at that. He'd been so startled by the Sheriff's abrupt entrance back into their lives and so grateful for what he did, that he'd forgotten to be angry for a minute. He's remembering now and it's burning through him, white hot and clarifying.

"I told Claudia to take you and go. I told her to make sure I couldn't find you."

"Are you dangerous?" Lydia asks, her hand inching towards Stiles' again. He picks it up, holds it between both his palms and squeezes in reassurance. 

"I wasn't... and I was," he says cryptically, then winces like he knows how that sounds. 

"What's the catch? Why did you do what you did?" Stiles asks, suspicious.

"No catch. You can take those kids home and never see me again. I'll tell the WLED whatever you want, sign whatever forms they give me. Just, I'd like the chance to explain, but it's completely up to you."

"You're not going to turn up on our doorstep if we don't want you to?" Stiles questions. 

"I'll go back to Beacon Hills and never look back if that's what you really want. I'll admit, I might be tempted to Facebook stalk you every now and again but that's about as obtrusive as I'd get."

"You're on Facebook?" Stiles asks, thrown for a second by the equal measures of absurd and mundane of the idea.

"Can we talk, before I leave? Somewhere neutral if you like, doesn't have to be your home or anything. I know you've probably been through enough today so just in the next couple of days while I'm sorting all of this out?"

"I guess so," Stiles allows after giving Lydia a searching look. She nods in agreement and then gives him a raised eyebrow. 

"There's a bar, we know the owner," she says.

"You're under age-" the Sheriff starts to protest immediately, but then grimaces. "Sorry, that's absolutely none of my business, right?"

"Right," Stiles says, gaze challenging and the Sheriff huffs, obviously amused.

"I've got something I'd like to run by you. Just an idea," he says. 

"Here we go," Stiles sighs, relieved that they didn't have to wait that long for the other boot to drop. He knew there'd be some kind of condition to the Sheriff getting involved. Nothing, in their lives at least, comes for free.

"Stop looking like that, it's nothing bad I swear. If you say no, I'll be disappointed but that'll be the end of it."

"You can't tell us now?" Lydia presses.

"Like I said, you've had enough to deal with today, I don't want to pile on anything more and I don't want you making any decisions after what you've been through."

"Fine," Stiles finally allows, although he suspects the Sheriff is basically using their curiosity to ensure they show to any meeting they organize which, Stiles would be the first to admit, is the kind of gentle manipulation he'd be capable of. 

Lydia tears a blank corner off the envelope all the forms had been packed into and scribbles down the address of the Lone Wolf before handing it over. The Sheriff takes the slip between his fingers, glances at it and his eyebrows tick up for a moment before he folds it carefully and tucks it into his breast pocket. 

"Friday at six," Stiles says, not a question. The Lone Wolf is generally pretty quiet that early on a Friday night, the Shingles only starting to ramp up for the evening and Ahab is onsite, which means if they need help he'll have to intervene. Plus Kali, Ahab's scariest bouncer, who has a convenient soft-spot for Lydia, usually works Fridays.

"All done?" Yukimura asks, poking her head inside like she knew just when to, smiling brightly.

"I think so?" Stiles says and the Sheriff gives them a nod and waves them off. He's still signing forms but apparently they don't have to wait around for him to finish. 

"Probably a good thing. I think I saw one of your kids gnawing on another one. They might need snacks," Yukimura says, herding Stiles and Lydia outside. When they're downstairs and then back in the daylight, Stiles can't help but cast a quick eye around. 

"I saw him leave," Parrish says gently, holding the back door of his very responsible-looking sedan open so Isaac and Erica can clamber inside. Since they only brought the Porsche and Boyd has a pick-up with a single bench seat, Parrish had offered to take the kids home so they didn't have to make two trips. 

Stiles doesn't bother feigning ignorance, just shrugs and pushes Isaac aside so he can climb into Parrish's car behind him since Scott has already stolen his spot in Jackson's car. Malia is delighted to get the passenger seat and she babbles excitedly at Parrish all the way back home, Stiles letting the sound wash over him and relief sink into his bones, one arm slung across Isaac's shoulders and his fingers tangled in Erica's long curls.


	23. Chapter 23

Stiles wakes up to a gentle _tock, tock_ on his window. He lays still for a moment, wondering if he was imagining things when there's a decidedly louder _crack_ and Stiles leaps up and crosses to his window, throwing it open and leaning out.

"What the ever-loving fuck?" he demands before he spots Derek standing in front of his Camaro parked at the curb and looking from his hand, which has a chunk of brick in it, and back up to Stiles. 

"I'm so sorry!" Derek blurts. "I didn't know whether you were ignoring me or just couldn't hear the littler stones so I tried something bigger and..." Derek seems to realize he's still holding the incriminating evidence because he tosses the brick aside and if that's what he'd hit Stiles' window with, it isn't any wonder it cracked.

"Are you serious right now?" Stiles sighs, watching the way Derek shuffles nervously beneath him. 

"It was supposed to be..."

"Stay there, I'm coming down."

"What are you going to do?" Lydia asks. She's standing in his doorway, sleep-mask pushed up onto her forehead and wearing a carefully neutral expression.

"I don't know," Stiles says, crossing his arms, defensive. He really doesn't. He hadn't known what he expecting, but he was _hoping_ Derek would show up at some point. What he would do if Derek did show up though wasn't something he'd gotten far enough along in that thought process to find out. He was still carefully balanced between wanting to give him a righteous telling off or kissing the crap out of him. Stiles was kind of leaning towards doing both.

"He saved our bacon," Lydia points out, stepping aside.

"He was the reason our bacon was in the fry pan in the first place," Stiles counters, then flicks her in the forehead.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Because now I want bacon," Stiles throws over his shoulder as he makes his way towards the stairs. "Back in bed, all of you!" he adds because the rest of the kids have gathered behind Lydia. He's not really holding out much hope that they'll heed him, and is sure of it when he hasn't even reached the second step down to the ground floor of the house when he hears them piling into his room, the window of which has the best view of the street.

Stiles takes a bracing breath before he opens the door, looks down at himself briefly and figures he's decent enough in sweat pants and an undershirt and pushes his feet into a pair of Scott's trainers piled on top of each other in the entryway. The only jacket on the row of hooks above his head is one that's either Erica's or Lydia's, white with a fluffy hood and Stiles debates internally for a second before pulling it on. It's cold outside and this conversation could take thirty seconds or a few hours, Stiles isn't sure yet which it will be.

Derek's eyebrows tick up when Stiles gets outside in reaction to his ensemble, but he doesn't dare say anything. Instead he moves to open the front gate but Stiles waves him off, shaking his head. "I don't know if you've earned property rights yet."

"Stiles-"

"I'm serious, Derek. I'm really tempted to tell you to get back in that car and drive away, and don't think I don't know what you're doing bringing the Camaro instead of the mom-wolf car."

"I'm sorry about your window."

Stiles makes a dismissive noise. "I'm in a house with a bunch of growing werewolves. Our glass guy's name is Terry. He came to Thanksgiving dinner last year because we see him so often."

"I'll pay-" Derek starts to offer, but his mouth closes with a click at Stiles' stern _don't start that shit again_ look.

"Just, answer my questions honestly and I'll think about letting you into the front yard. I'll _think_ about it."

"Sounds fair."

Stiles takes a deep breath and centers himself. "Was the only reason you were in the Lone Wolf that night because Peter had asked you to check us out?" Stiles knows the answer to this first question, but he still wants to hear it from Derek.

"Yes," Derek confirms. He looks like he desperately wants to add to his answer but is holding himself back. His restraint is admirable to say the least.

"Did you organize the Skinner to attack me so you could swoop in and save the day as a way in?"

"No, _of course_ not," Derek says, looking genuinely horrified at the prospect. "Do you really think that?"

"I wasn't sure," Stiles says with a shrug. 

"I was just going to follow you, see if you and Lydia were really looking after the kids by yourselves like Peter thought. He'd checked into your grandmother and it seemed like she was more out of the picture than the paper trail would have Child Services believe."

"So you just happened to come back at the right time?"

"Come back?" Derek asks, looking puzzled.

"Y'know, after you followed Lydia home and then..." Stiles trails off because Derek is looking away and _blushing_. "Wait, Peter wanted you to check out our home situation and even though _Lydia_ was going home to the kids and you would have heard us talking about that with your big fat werewolf ears, you stuck around till I was leaving?"

"You were going to be walking alone and I-"

"You didn't know me then. Why would you care?"

"We're not as ruled by our instincts as those terrible werewolf romance novels you read would have you believe, but sometimes the gut is hard to ignore. From the moment I laid eyes on you I knew you'd be trouble and I wasn't wrong."

"The whole thing was still just a way to get dirt on us though, wasn't it?"

"I was supposed to make sure there wasn't a legal guardian but that's it. The other stuff was... it was all me."

"What about the tip-off to the WPA?"

"Peter, I think. We argued and he started to doubt my loyalty. He knew I was getting too... attached."

"What about our dad? Did you go get him?"

"I was heading to Beacon Hills when I called you. I was going to feel him out, make sure he wasn't just another low-life for you. I asked around before I approached him and Stiles, everyone I talked to told me he was the most loyal, genuine, kind man they'd ever met. His pack is made up of omegas who had nowhere else to go. He'd given them a life, a home, somewhere to belong. I kinda got the feeling he was trying to make up for the family he couldn't protect by trying to protect everyone else's. When I told him you were in trouble he insisted on coming."

Stiles swallows hard and tilts his head, squints at Derek. "You tell him _why_ we were in trouble?"

"I'm pretty sure he still wants to rip my throat out for that," Derek says with a reflexive wince. 

"I'd kinda like to see that," Stiles says honestly.

"I'm sure he'd oblige if either you or Lydia say the word."

"I don't know if I can trust you. I mean, you didn't _tell_ me on your own. Were you going to if I hadn't found out myself?"

"I know you probably won't believe this, but I was. I just figured I needed a really grand gesture to be able to do it and still have you let me in your life, to trust me. Your dad was going to be my grand gesture. I guess... he still was."

"The whole relinquishing your claim on Malia thing kinda helped too," Stiles admits, rubbing at the back of his head. "Unless it's another ploy."

"It's not, I swear."

"How angry is Peter at you?"

"I still don't know what he'll do. You'll have to be careful. Peter's... unpredictable."

"What about you then?"

"I can handle myself."

"If you're his alpha, why are you working for Peter?"

"We haven't really been a traditional pack for a while. He was always better at... management and I was good at the, I suppose you'd call it heavy lifting."

"You hurt people, for a living."

"To be honest, usually the threat was more than enough. Peter knew an alpha werewolf would get his point across with the kinds of people he dealt with. I don't remember the last time I had to even so much as throw a punch."

"What are you going to do now?"

"Don't know, take some time off I guess? Figure stuff out."

"Sounds sensible," Stiles says and knows he's not in a position to ask if Derek means taking time off _everything_ , even though he wants to. 

"Stiles-" Derek starts to say, reaches out a hand to him and that's when something hits Derek in the side of the face.

"A water-balloon? Seriously? How old are you?" Stiles bawls at the open window that has Scott, Isaac, Erica and Malia hanging out of it. Lydia has disappeared, probably in the hopes of having plausible deniability.

"It's not water," Derek says through gritted teeth. He hasn't moved, hand frozen in the act of reaching out to Stiles, hair mooshed flat and sideways by the impact of the balloon and steadily wilting with damp, a fragment of balloon stuck in his collar.

"What do you mean it's not wa-?" Stiles starts to say, but then the smell hits him and he turns on his kids, who all look ridiculously pleased with themselves and unrepentant. "You threw a _piss_ balloon? What is wrong with you?"

Scott holds up an imperious finger after he hands Malia who'd been balanced on his hip over to Erica and then waves something that Stiles recognizes with a groan. He'd gotten a packet of reading material from Mrs Yukimura and the spiral-bound booklet in the packet entitled _Blended Families! How to make a GO (Great Outcome) of it_ in happy bubble letters had been pitched onto the top of the pile of moisture-wrinkled magazines in the bathroom without a second thought. 

"Your adolescent were may experience a phase of extreme marking or scenting behavior. They must be helped through this phase with nurturing and patience and must _not_ be made to feel punished for or embarrassed by this behavior," Scott reads in a ridiculously pompous voice.

"A phase huh? How long do you think this phase is going to last?"

"About ten minutes," Scott says with a shrug.

"It's fine. It's probably the least I deserve," Derek says, finally unfreezing and reaching for Stiles' front gate again.

Stiles twists so he's still bodily blocking the gate without actually touching Derek and raises an eyebrow at him. "Just where do you think you're going?"

"To... oh _c'mon_. You're not going to make me drive home like this are you?"

"Like you said. It's the least you deserve," Stiles says crisply and manages to hold onto his stoic expression for long enough that Derek actually gets all the way back to his car, fingers on the door handle when he breaks. "Come back, geez!" he snorts.

Derek turns, the beginnings of a hopeful smile on his face which is ridiculous considering he's still dripping when Stiles says, "We'll hose you off in the front yard. Hey kids, who wants to hold the hose?"

There's a chorus of _me's_ from upstairs and Stiles isn't surprised to find Lydia is back amongst them and manages to get to the hose first, spraying Derek in the face possibly a little too enthusiastically. He puts up with it like a trooper, shedding his jacket and then overshirt and then _shirt_ and Stiles hears what sounds like a wolf whistle, heh, from across the street, turns and says, "Mrs Hallingsworth!"

"I'm eighty-six. I'm not dead," she calls back, grinning and making a circling motion with her hands like she wants Derek to turn around, give her a real show.

"Go get a towel and a change of clothes for Derek," Stiles instructs Isaac who thumps back into the house obligingly and then he turns on Scott.

"We were just going to pee from the window but figured Erica and Malia shouldn't miss out," he says with a shrug and when Stiles' eyes narrow at him, his shoulders hunch up. "Derek said it was fine, he's not mad!"

"It's not fine," Stiles grits out and then flails his own hands. "I was totally in the splash zone!"

"That's what you're worried about?" Derek manages to get out between blasts of water to the face.

"Yes! I could have been hit. Friendly pee-fire!"

"Y'know if it was a territorial thing then you would have been the actual target, right?" Derek says, looking about as amused as someone who is doing a stunning impression of a half-drowned unimpressed cat can.

"That's..." Stiles starts to say but then his gaze flicks back to Scott who is retreating, _fast_. "Oh you are dead! Your werewolf speed will not save you!"


	24. Chapter 24

Kali looks like she's almost bristling when they reach the Lone Wolf on Friday. She spots them and jerks her chin towards the middle of the room. "He belong to you?"

"Sort of," Stiles says, looking over her shoulder. Their dad is sitting at a table dead center of the place, steadily cracking and flipping peanuts into his mouth. He has what looks like a large binder at his elbow and he's wearing civvies today, jeans and a worn-looking flannel shirt. Despite this, Stiles doesn't blame Kali for reading the _law man_ all over him like it's stamped on his forehead. 

"Ahab's about ready to pitch a fit," Kali warns. "The Redden brothers have a table booked and Ahab was hoping to offload the more expensive and _illegal_ hooch on them all in one hit. They see him, they're going to make for the hills."

"We won't be that long," Stiles promises and figures if it does turn out that they'll need more time, he can relocate them to the Cherry Pit down the road, give his dad a real walk on the wild side and mollify Ahab at the same time by taking him to Ahab's direct competition.

The Sheriff smiles when he spots them, big and genuine. Stiles tries not to let it affect him but he catches Lydia smiling in return automatically and knows he isn't the only one. They shuffle over to the table and Stiles catches Warren's eye, waggling two fingers as he perches on a stool.

"You can serve your self, Stilinski," Warren snits back, flipping his bar rag over his shoulder and giving Stiles a dismissive wave. 

Stiles offers his dad a grimace and gets back up. "Beer?" he asks Lydia and she nods so he heads to the bar, leaning over it to grab clean glasses from underneath. Warren thwaps him on the top of the head with his disgusting rag and Stiles flips back upright almost too quickly, nearly dropping the glasses. 

"That would have come out of _your_ check," he snaps, eyes narrowed at Warren.

"What's with the silver wolf? You got tired of the baby alpha you had, wanted to upgrade?" Warren asks with a leer and Stiles' skin breaks out in gooseflesh at the rumble of a displeased growl behind him. He looks over his shoulder and his dad is right there, eyes red and mouth a small, angry line. His dad relieves Stiles of the glasses he'd been holding under the beer taps very deliberately, instructs a wide-eyed and unusually silent Warren to fetch two sodas instead and he does before beating a prudently hasty retreat to the other end of the bar.

"I have beer at home, you know," Stiles says, waggling the soda bottles.

"And you can drink it there, but not here in front of me in a public place."

"Boo, boring," Stiles snorts and the Sheriff's face loses its tenseness as he rolls his eyes.

"Let me at least pretend to be the responsible, mature adult here," he pleads and Stiles blows out a breath and mutters, _fi-ine_ , dragging out the word along with his feet back to their table. Lydia looks amused as he slumps back onto his stool and pats his shoulder before taking one of the sodas and uncapping it with a practiced flick of her hand.

"I brought something you guys might want," the Sheriff says before nudging the binder across the table. On closer inspection it's a photo album and Stiles dry-swallows because he knows exactly what will be in it without even having to crack the cover.

"What you have to say must be pretty bad if you need to soften us up first," Lydia says with an arched eyebrow, her fingers walking across the cover of the photo album like she's itching to snatch it up and paw greedily through it. Stiles can understand the impulse.

"Not bad. Just difficult and way overdue," the Sheriff says, nudging the photo album closer to them both with a knuckle.

Lydia glances at Stiles before she cracks the album open slowly, so slowly like she thinks it might crumble into dust in her hands if she isn't careful. The cover does creak with age and Stiles can see the corner of the first page is yellowed before it's even open all the way and then it _is_ open and Stiles is staring at a photograph of his mother, heavily pregnant and smiling in a way Stiles never remembers seeing. The Sheriff is snugged in behind her, his arms around her and his hands resting on the extended swell of her belly.

Stiles didn't even realize until that moment that a small part of him was still waiting for this all to be some elaborate scam. Until he saw the photo of his mother encircled and safe, the deep dent of worry that had been perpetually between her brows smoothed or perhaps not even there yet, he'd still been bracing himself for it all to not be true.

The Claudia in the photo is young and lovely in a way she must have been before Stiles' true memories of her start and he swallows thickly, fighting the sick feeling in his gut.

He grits his teeth against the broken sound he wants to make when Lydia turns the page. He isn't done drinking in the image of his mother like that, so full of something he can't even name. The next photo is Claudia in a hospital bed, looking damp and drawn but holding close two wrapped bundles, a tiny head with tufty red hair sticking out the top of one and spiky dark hair out of the other.

There's something in Claudia's eyes already that's changed between pregnancy and having them. She's still smiling but at the same time she's afraid.

Stiles reaches out and closes the album, feeling resistance in Lydia's hands that want to keep it open but he can't do this, not now, not here, not in public and exposed like this.

"You wanted a chance to explain?" Stiles prompts, giving the Sheriff a level look and he nods, resigned but resolute. 

"Was it us? Did we do something wrong?" Lydia blurts.

The Sheriff's face goes blank in surprise for a moment before it crumples. He reaches out, probably without thinking, and grasps one of Stiles' hands and one of Lydia's in his own. Stiles isn't sure if he's quite ready for such intimate contact yet, but he doesn't pull away because the Sheriff looks absolutely mortified.

"No, god, _no_ ," he asserts, squeezing their hands almost painfully on each word, before releasing them abruptly like he's only just realized what he's done. "No matter what, please know that none of this is on you guys."

"What was it then?" Lydia presses, her shoulders coming up in the defensive way they do when she's bracing herself for something that'll hurt. Stiles hates that he can recognize the gesture, that he's seen it enough to know exactly what it means.

"Mostly werewolf bullshit," the Sheriff says, shaking his head, looking disgusted.

"So, it was because we weren't...?" Stiles starts to hazard.

"Yes, but, not in the way you probably think," the Sheriff says, looking like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch them again.

"You probably learned a sanitized version of the history between werewolves and witches in high school," the Sheriff begins.

"We both had to drop out before we got to the good, bloody stuff," Stiles can't help but interject with and feels the tiniest measure of selfish satisfaction when the Sheriff winces.

"Witches started helping hunters kill werewolf packs in return for werewolf blood because it would boost their power. Werewolf packs started hunting down covens in return and there were a lot of innocent causalities on both sides. I think the only winners at that time were the hunters. It was probably a dream come true for them that two supernatural factions started killing each other off indiscriminately."

"That's all very interesting but it's the kind of stuff I can read in Scott's school text books," Lydia says.

"It was a pretty dark time," the Sheriff says, his tone patient and almost amused despite the subject matter at the interruptions.

"There's laws and regulations, now," Stiles says, waving off the history lesson.

"I'm just laying some groundwork, trust me. Basically, some werewolves never really let their distrust or even outright hatred of witches go to this day. I'm sure the same can be said on the other side of things."

Stiles thinks about the wards, pictures in his mind his mother up on a wobbly chair, carefully etching them above doorways and around windows, muttering words he didn't understand while she did it, a line of concentration between her brows. He doesn't know why he never thought of it before, he just always assumed it was one of her quirky rituals, about as benign as her holding up crossed fingers when she heard a siren and throwing salt over her shoulder if there was a spill.

"Mom was a witch," Stiles says slowly.

"Except for werewolves, most of the supernatural bloodlines are pretty heavily diluted these days. Vampires, Skinners, witches, none of them have even a fraction of the power they used to. Your mom though, she was something else. Made the hair stand up on the back of my neck the first time I saw her and with the power and the way she looked in the yellow dress she was wearing-"

"Are you about to emotionally scar us for life here?" Stiles asks, holding up a hand. "I mean, more than we are already?"

"Sorry," the Sheriff says, huffing out a wry laugh. 

"But you don't like witches?" Lydia asks slowly, her hand creeping over to grip Stiles' elbow, squeezing.

"Not me. My father. He was, I think the nicest way to say it is a _traditionalist_. Werewolves in werewolf packs, witches as far away from us as possible."

"What about humans in a pack?" Stiles asks, feeling like they're approaching the point of the story.

"He thought having humans in a pack weakened it, that it was a sign of vulnerability. My father wouldn't tolerate weakness of any kind. He killed three alphas and took over their betas before I was ten years old. He ran off any human members that wouldn't take the bite and any betas that wouldn't bend to his will."

"Sounds like a charmer," Lydia says with a delicate shudder.

"Well, you can imagine how thrilled he was when his only son came home one day with a witch on his arm then."

"Did he hurt our mom?" Stiles asks, eyes narrowing.

"He wouldn't so much as acknowledge her existence at first. He thought I was just being rebellious and... I was young and I didn't really understand how dangerous he was, that he would be willing to..." The Sheriff trails off, eyes distant and wounded. He takes a sip of his drink, seems to rally and shakes off whatever ghosts he's battling to tell his story.

"We eloped because I knew we'd never get his blessing to marry. He _couldn't_ touch her then, not when I'd declared her."

"I'm sensing there isn't going to be some cutesy, everyone cries and hugs romcom ending to this story," Stiles presumes.

"He thawed a little when Claudia fell pregnant. When we found out it was twins, he became almost... nice. Werewolves tend to be born in multiple births so he took it as a sign that you'd be werewolves. When you were both born human he... saying he was angry doesn't even come close to describing it.

"He accused Claudia of _doing_ something. Your mom was always a strong-willed woman and she told him straight to his face that he was crazy if he believed that she would risk her kids just to spite him. He demanded I give you the bite and I refused. I thought he was going to rip my throat out then and there in the hospital waiting room when I said no."

"What did he do?" Lydia asks, wide-eyed and sounding a little breathless. 

"He left. I thought it was because he was washing his hands of us. I was deeply, deeply stupid." The Sheriff takes another girding drink and Stiles can see the hand holding his glass is shaking just the tiniest bit. 

"I found us another place to live, away from him, away from the pack. I knew he was angry, figured he never wanted to see us again and I thought that would be it, that we'd be banished. For a couple of months everything was good and we got complacent. We stopped being careful, being watchful. My father's a patient man and he doesn't let things go. One night, I'll never forget it, I went into your bedroom when I heard Stiles screaming bloody murder. I figured he was just hungry, he was always the more vocal of the two of you, but when I got into the room and saw Lydia's crib empty, I knew."

The Sheriff swallows hard. "I knew my father had taken her and I knew what he'd do."

Despite Stiles knowing Lydia is _fine_ , that her sitting right next to him at the bar table is proof positive of that, he can't help but press into her, feeling reflexively afraid. Even hearing a long-past story of her being threatened is enough to make his heart pound and his upper lip sweat. He sees out of the corner of his eye Lydia make a dismissive gesture and realizes that Kali has started approaching them, a worried frown on her face. He figures both he and Lydia are radiating something not good for Kali to even think of approaching an alpha she doesn't know, even here.

"What happened? What stopped him giving her the bite?" Stiles asks, because _something_ must have. This was not the kind of story where the villain had a magical change of heart no matter how adorable and loveable Lydia might have been as a baby.

"Nothing. He bit her." 

"What? That's not possible. You either turn or you die, everyone knows that," Stiles says.

"I don't know what to tell you, kid. To this day I still don't know what happened, but my father bit her and then he brought her back when he thought she was dying. He said it was _disappointing_ , that he'd give us a little time to grieve and then he'd be back for Stiles. I told him that he wouldn't live that long, that I wouldn't leave her right then, but the moment Lydia drew her last breath I would come for him, that I would kill him.

"That was the longest goddamned three days of my life. Lydia was so sick, just like we knew she would be and we kept expecting every little ragged breath she drew in to be her last. She just kept on breathing though and on the fourth day we all woke up and Lydia was lying in her crib, playing with her toy cow and looking as bright-eyed and healthy as she ever was."

Lydia's hand drifts restlessly to her side, to the crescent-shaped scar Stiles knows is underneath her dress that their mother had always told them was the result of Lydia trying to climb a barbed wire fence when she was six. 

"We knew my father wouldn't rest, wouldn't stop until you kids were turned or dead. Either he'd try again or he'd make sure you didn't survive the experience. He'd think it was Claudia's doing, that she'd made sure you were human when you were born and she did something else to keep you that way. _I_ knew that eventually my father would think Claudia was the problem, that if he got rid of her he might be able to turn you after all. I couldn't risk it, I couldn't risk you, but I also wasn't sure I could kill him. I couldn't risk going after him and leaving you defenseless if I failed."

"She ran, with us," Lydia says, a statement, not a question.

"We both decided it was the only way to keep you safe. He would always, _always_ be able to find me. He'd never accepted her as pack though so he didn't have that bond to her or you so there was a chance if she went... She also knew some ways to stay hidden if I didn't know where she was either."

"Is he still... around?" Stiles asks, wondering whether they have a new worry, whether they have a new danger to look out for.

"He was killed three years ago when he went up against the wrong alpha. His pack scattered to the winds and I was able to return home to Beacon Hills and try to pick up the pieces, establish a pack of my own. I started looking for you straight away, used some expensive private detectives and then cheaper ones when I ran out of money. I went to shamans, priests, witches, witch _doctors_ but they all came up blank. I didn't realize that the whole time, until Derek told me about the ward she'd used, that the problem was me."

"You?" Stiles prompts.

"Anything I did to look for you would fail. Anything I initiated, even if I asked someone else to start looking, wouldn't work. That was the way the ward worked, you were a blind spot to me and anyone else that was looking for you on my behalf."

"Derek said that usually the magic died with the user," Lydia says, throwing a glance at Stiles and he pulls a face at her.

"I don't know exactly how it works, but a spell like that, reinforced over and over and over again, would take a while to dissipate."

"If it wasn't still being reinforced," Lydia says, poking Stiles in the side.

"Ow! How was I supposed to know?"

"You?" the Sheriff says, eyes fixing on Stiles, wide with surprise.

"I didn't know what I was doing," Stiles defends. "Or even if it's actually _true_."

"I'd given up all hope, then your Hale turns up out of nowhere with a hell of a story to tell me."

"Derek thinks you want to rip his throat out," Stiles says and the Sheriff huffs.

"Jury's still out."

"He came through for us," Lydia interjects, decisive and it's Stiles' turn to huff.

"So, you probably have a lot to absorb. I took a little time off to come here so I can stick around for a few more days... unless you want me to head back?"

"No, stay. We'd like to see you again before you leave," Stiles says, after a quick consultative look at Lydia to check she's feeling the same way. "You're right though, we do have a lot to digest."

"Here's my number, call anytime, and I mean _any time_ ," the Sheriff says, handing over a card. 

"Ooh, fancy," Stiles says, waving the card with _Beacon Hills Sheriff's Office_ emblazoned across the top in gold. Across the bottom is _A tradition of service since 1850_.

*

Stiles drops Lydia off at Jackson's overly ostentatious apartment complex the next Wednesday after they've both pulled a double at the Lone Wolf to stop Ahab glaring at them about the Sheriff. "You've forgiven him?" Stiles asks as he's letting her out on the curb.

"Not completely, but he really can't grovel as effectively on the phone as in person," she replies primly.

When Stiles gets home the house is quiet house and Derek is asleep on the couch, clutching Malia's toy horse to his chest and with a jaunty moustache drawn on his face beneath his nose. Stiles sits carefully in the curve of Derek's belly and rubs a thumb on one edge of the mustache, relieved to find it smears so at least the kids didn't hit him with the permanent markers. He doesn't want to break out the rubbing alcohol this late.

"Rough night?" Stiles asks, showing Derek the pad of his ink-smudged thumb when Derek cracks his eyes open. 

"I wanted to see you and the kids said I could wait inside. I hope you don't mind," Derek says, his voice gravelly with sleep. Stiles leans forward and takes an experimental sniff of Derek's jacket, and Derek grunts out a short laugh. "No pee, I swear," he says, sounding more alert and amused.

"No, I don't mind," Stiles says.

"I know I might not have earned indoor privileges yet-"

"I forgive you," Stiles interrupts him to say, wanting to get it out of the way. He knows Lydia enjoys a good long, extended grovelling but he doesn't so much. Lydia was right, Derek came through for them when it mattered. 

Derek blinks at him for a moment, looking faintly wary like he's suspecting a trap. "What?"

"I've decided to forgive you, in case you were wondering. Fully and completely."

"Why?" Derek asks, sounding perplexed.

"I don't know, sometimes you just have to forgive someone, maybe not because they deserve it but because you still want them in your life."

"You want me in your life?" Derek sounds so brokenly hopefully that Stiles leans forward and presses a kiss to his temple, feels Derek relax underneath the curve of his body, like he'd been holding himself tense this whole time.

"Yup, you're stuck with me, with _us_. Think you can handle that?" Stiles says when he pulls back, Derek watchful and wide-eyed.

Something breaks on Derek's face and then he's lunging forward. He doesn't really have anywhere to go so he manages to knock Stiles off the couch, lands on top of him with a thump, peppering Stiles' face with kisses, his cheeks, chin, forehead, anywhere he can reach. Stiles lets out a surprised laugh and thwacks Derek in the ribs until he rolls sideways and partially under the coffee table, smiling up at the ceiling.

"Yes, definitely," Derek enthuses, sounding a little breathless. A moment later Stiles lets out an squeak because Malia lands on him and he suspects she jumped from the bottom of the stairs because he didn't hear her coming.

"Stiles!" she practically screams in his face in delight.

"Ow! Indoor, night-time voice," Stiles protests, barely manages to take in another breath before he's got two more weres piled on top of him, Scott only hesitating for about three seconds before he breaks and joins the stack of bodies.

"Help! Death by squishing is imminent!" Stiles squeaks out and feels strong arms loop around his waist and then tug sideways. Werewolves and a werecoyote tumble every which way and Stiles hears the unfortunate sound of the coffee table and possibly a lamp breaking and sighs deeply.

"I kind of approve of the whole saving me thing you seem to be good at," Stiles says when he's situated on Derek's chest and grinning dopily down at him.

"I'm not so sure I'm fond of the amount of peril you find yourself in that requires it," Derek grumbles, but there's unmistakable fondness on his face.

"Wowee! Food Santa!" Malia screeches from the kitchen and Stiles levers upright to see that his kids have all made a beeline for it right after trying to pulverize him.

"Food Santa?" Stiles asks, throwing a questioning look at Derek.

"Okay, don't be mad-" Derek starts and Stiles raises a quelling eyebrow at him, using Derek's belly to push himself to his feet.

"Don't make me rethink the whole forgiving you thing so soon," Stiles warns as Derek catches him by the elbow to stop him escaping completely.

"I just figured what with everything happening that you wouldn't have had time to shop."

"You bought us groceries?" Stiles asks, feeling a reflexive stab of annoyance. 

"Not just groceries..." Derek hedges, pulling a face.

"Out with it," Stiles demands.

"It's just... it's Thanksgiving tomorrow and I've heard you talk about it before and it sounded like it was a big deal and-"

"Oh my god, seriously? I totally spaced," Stiles groans, thumping his forehead with the heel of his hand. He feels _terrible_. Thanksgiving is the one holiday they always go all out for, no matter what's happening. He and Lydia usually scrimp and save for a month beforehand so they can have a feast that would satisfy even the growing werewolves in the house but last Stiles checked he only had a carton of milk, a couple of loaves of bread, a stale box of Pizza Shapes and some questionable cheese in the house. 

He thought he'd been doing well knowing it was a Wednesday but he'd had no idea that it was _that_ Wednesday.

"I know. So, I went shopping," Derek offers, gesturing towards the kitchen and letting Stiles free. He follows the direction of Derek's outstretched hand and has to stand in the kitchen entryway and just gawp when he reaches it.

There are bags of potatoes and boxes of leafy greens shoved onto every available free bit of counter space. Scott has the fridge open and Stiles can see the edge of what promises to be an _enormous_ turkey and more bits and pieces shoved around it like Derek had played a version of food Tetris to fit everything in. 

On the kitchen table there's honest to god decorations along with a giant, garish, hand-made turkey that's painted a bright, never-seen-in-nature orange. 

"Laura made that when she was about seven," Derek says from the doorway. Stiles drifts over to the table and picks up the turkey carefully, the paper bird crinkling in his fingers with age.

"Can I see?" Malia demands, making grabby hands at the turkey and Stiles holds it up and away from her.

"No hon, it's brittle and... important," Stiles says. "Derek's sister made it when she little like you."

"Derek has a sister? Like Lydia and Erica?" Malia asks, temporarily distracted by this intriguing bit of information.

"I did," Derek says carefully. "She... died."

"Ooh, like Dr. Bubbles?" Malia asks and Derek blinks.

"Yes, like Dr. Bubbles," Stiles says, remembering the well-loved but also very short-lived goldfish that was their one sole attempt at having a house pet.

"Did you bury her in your backyard?" Malia asks and Stiles hisses, "Malia!" on a horrified exhale.

Derek's smiling though and nodding. "Kind of. We have some land and a house in Upstate New York. I guess you could say she's in the backyard there with the rest of my family."

"So they're together and not lonely?" Malia asks and when Derek nods she does too, seemingly satisfied with this. "That's good," she decides and walks over to Derek to hug his legs. He seems surprised and touched, right up until she opens her mouth and bites his thigh.

"Permission Malia! Did you ask?" Stiles scolds and Malia waves him off.

"Happy bite, no teeth. Scott showed me."

Stiles throws Scott an unimpressed look and he shrugs, unrepentant. "Hey, if she was going to do it anyway."

"Alright, so," Stiles says, turning back to Derek. "You shopped so I cook. It can be a new tradition or something."

"Sounds fair," Derek says agreeably, looking relieved that this hasn't devolved into an argument.

"Yeah. You can do, you know, the thing where you drink beer and watch the game on the couch."

"What game?" Derek asks, raising a quizzical eyebrow and biting back a grin.

"I don't know," Stiles huffs, waving him off. "I don't have time to help you with your duties. I have to brine."

"Okay, okay," Derek says, holding his hands up. 

"Hey, um, Derek?" Stiles asks when Derek turns to make himself scarce. He turns back and looks at Stiles. "Should I invite my dad?"

"If you like. I'm pretty sure he'd be thrilled."


	25. Chapter 25

Stiles waits until Lydia gets home early the next morning to make the call, and then listens to the Sheriff try not to sound as choked up and touched by the invitation as he is, which warms Stiles down to his bones. After the call, he and Lydia work in companionable silence in the kitchen, she skinning and chopping vegetables and Stiles washing off the brine so the turkey will go golden when it's cooked. 

"Why don't you make the kids do the prep work?" Derek asks when he risks entering the kitchen a few hours later. He leans into the fridge to retrieve a beer and holds it aloft to prove that he's only breaching the mystical barrier between living room and kitchen to play his part to the hilt like he promised.

"You do want the food to actually make it to the table, right?" Stiles says and Derek snorts. "Isaac will eat raw potato. It's pretty disgusting."

"Fair enough," Derek accepts.

"You find a game on?"

"Lacrosse," Derek confirms, looking adorably pleased with himself.

"Oh my god. You fail at Thanksgiving."

"Malia's enjoying it."

"I think her school has a team," Lydia says, thoughtful. "Might be a good way to work out her aggression."

"Hmm," Stiles lets out, non-committal but then there's the sound of a commotion from the living room and Stiles wipes his hands off on the dish towel slung over his shoulder and follows the noise to find his father being let into the house by Isaac who's ducking his face, oddly bashful.

"Hey, hi!" Stiles says, barely able to see the Sheriff over the cluster of weres around him, all but Scott wearing jolly foam turkey hats.

"Let the man get all the way inside before you accost him," Lydia scolds, driving a path through the kids for the Sheriff to reach the kitchen. Stiles glances at Derek who is frozen on the couch, like maybe he thinks if he doesn't move the other alpha werewolf in the house won't notice him. 

"I didn't know what to bring," the Sheriff says when he reaches the kitchen, setting down the biggest bag of Peanut M&Ms Stiles has ever seen in his life.

"Candy!" Malia screeches in glee and Lydia has to catch her before she launches herself onto the kitchen counter in pursuit of chocolate.

"After lunch," Lydia says, setting Malia back on her feet and turning her to face the Sheriff with her hands on Malia's shoulders. "Say hi to... Mr Stilinski," she prompts, her face twisting up because she, like Stiles, doesn't really know how to address him yet.

Malia marches right up to the Sheriff, gives him a thorough looking over and then asks, "Can I call you Granpop?"

"Oh, uh, no, hon, he's not your grandpa," Stiles says quickly. "You'd have to be my kid."

"I am your kid," Malia says, scrunching up her face. 

"No, I mean... I'd have to be your..." Stiles flails his hands, at a loss.

"That's fine, she can call me whatever she likes," the Sheriff says, rescuing Stiles from further awkwardness. Malia gives him a satisfied little smile and barrels back into the living room. Stiles hears a muted _oof_ and figures she's pitched herself at Derek. She's discovered that Derek is a much more durable adult than either Stiles or Lydia and has taken to using him much like a jumping castle whenever the mood takes her.

"Can I do anything?" the Sheriff asks, looking uncertain and Stiles figures it would be pretty mean to send him back into the living room to sit awkwardly with Derek. Thanksgiving is all about the strained familial interactions but Stiles is feeling particularly charitable towards Derek and his father.

"Can you make green bean casserole?" he asks instead. 

"My green bean casserole is the stuff of legend," the Sheriff confirms, rolling up the sleeves on his checked shirt and making _gimme_ hands at Lydia who has a bag of fresh green beans in hand already. They usually used canned but Derek had apparently hit a Farmer's market Stiles didn't even know existed nearby and all of their ingredients this year were frighteningly fresh and vibrant.

Lydia grins, bright and evil and unties the apron from her own waist and tugs it around the Sheriff's. "Looks like you boys have everything under control," she says, then turns to the fridge long enough to take out a beer and salute them with it before heading for the living room.

Scott appears a few moments later, looks longingly at the fridge and then at Stiles with big, pleading puppy eyes. Stiles sighs. "You can have one beer now or one with lunch, pick."

"I don't know what the big deal is, it can't affect me," Scott grumbles, chewing on his lip like he's weighing the merits of his two options.

"Why do you want it then?" Stiles counters and Scott snarks out a _fi-ine_ and retreats, obviously having decided to save his one beer of the day till later.

"I'm probably going to say this a lot and please let me know if it makes you uncomfortable, but my god, you're Claudia through and through," the Sheriff says, huffing a small laugh that's laced with affection.

"It doesn't... make me uncomfortable," Stiles says haltingly, feeling his cheeks heat because he knows the Sheriff's words for the compliment they are.

"I really appreciate being invited today. You don't know how much this means to me, letting me in like this."

"It's kind of a trial, for both sides," Stiles admits, although he can't imagine the day going badly right now. He's just too used to protecting himself, Lydia and the kids though to trust one hundred percent that everything will be perfect.

"Derek told me that he'd been taking the kids to the Pack Planning Center," the Sheriff says.

"Yeah, it was really good of him to offer. I don't think it's right that we couldn't take them, that they needed a werewolf sponsor to go. It's just another way both the human and shifter parts of the government are making it difficult for blended families. I mean Scott was-" Stiles cuts himself off from building up to a proper rant and grimaces. "Sorry, I've probably been spending too much time in online forums lately."

"Scott was?" the Sheriff prompts, smiling over his shoulder easily at Stiles while his hands are busy.

"Y'know, some behavioral stuff was starting to... come up? Apparently me getting all my information from Young Adult shifter fiction wasn't the way to go."

"No, it wouldn't be," the Sheriff agrees with a bemused laugh.

"We didn't really know how to deal with it and I don't think he did either."

"I could have a talk to him if that wouldn't be stepping over any boundaries?"

"He's been okay the last little while but, I mean, yeah, I don't see it being anything but helpful. Derek's awesome but we haven't exactly been, um, a good example."

"Scott's at a difficult age. He needs love, patience and-" It's the Sheriff's turn to cut himself off and Stiles turns to him.

"It's okay, you can say it. He needs stability. He doesn't need to feel like if he or we put a foot wrong then he's going to be yanked out of his home."

"I wish I'd been able to be here sooner for you, kid, I really do."

"I know why you couldn't. I mean, it's _my_ fault, isn't it?"

"Stiles, it's really not. Don't ever think that- hey guys," the Sheriff says, noticing Isaac and Erica hovering in the doorway before Stiles does.

"Malia says she's allowed to call you Granpop," Erica says gamely, lifting her chin. Isaac's almost entirely behind her, one hand fisted in the bottom of her t-shirt. Stiles hasn't seen him so unsure in a long time, not since he went through the most graceless puberty in history.

"You can call me that too?" the Sheriff offers, his voice and eyes warm. 

"Okay," Erica says, nods vigorously like they've concluded an important transaction and retreats, towing Isaac behind her who throws a painfully shy smile at the Sheriff over his shoulder before they hear another _oof_ from the living room and Stiles suspects Derek now has a pileup situation on his hands.

"The guys at the station are going to think it's hilarious that I have a couple of fourteen year olds calling me _granpop_. They're already teasing me about the grey temples."

"You're going to tell people about us?" Stiles asks, unsure why he's surprised by that. Except, he does know. He _knows_ because Isaac and Erica's dad and Scott's all treated them like some dirty little secret, to be kept apart from their lives except when they wanted something.

Like to steal their VCR.

"I already did Is that okay?"

"Yes," Stiles blurts, blinking hard because he's feeling the prick of hot tears in his eyes at the idea that someone wants to _acknowledge_ them.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it. I was just... this sounds stupid but I was excited and I didn't think."

"No, it's okay, really," Stiles reassures.

"Okay, good," the Sheriff says, nodding and returning to his work.

*

"So, you said you had something that you wanted to run by us the other night but I don't think we got to it?" Stiles says, after coming back in from the yard. The turkey was taking up the whole oven what with being the giant hormone monster that it was and they still had to bake potatoes and yams so he'd transferred it to the BBQ outside and was hoping for the best. Derek had been so adorably pleased to have an errand to run when Stiles had said someone would need to get a new gas bottle in case they ran out that Stiles had been forced to hug him and ruffle his hair.

Derek didn't look as _pleased_ about that considering the Sheriff had been watching them.

"Oh, right," the Sheriff says, sounding a little unsure. "Um, look, I know you have a life here-" Stiles freezes and the Sheriff holds up his hands, placating. "No, don't do that with your face. I just want you to _think_ about what I'm going to say."

The Sheriff waits for Stiles to nod slowly before he continues.

"I want you, Lydia and the kids to come to Beacon Hills, to live."

"You want us to think about it?"

" _Just_ think about it, and it doesn't have to be right away if you decide it's something you'd like to do. Just, someday I'd like you all to be closer, for the kids to have a pack and-" the Sheriff makes a sort of helpless gesture that Stiles takes to mean _-be out of this house that's possibly falling down, likely has some kind of mold problem and definitely has rodents and insects living in the basement_. 

"There's a good school, a lot of old growth forest, a preserve and a very sympathetic police force."

"We have a sympathetic police force, or, y'know, a sympathetic guy on the force." Stiles knows it's probably a little weird to feel so defensive considering he'd be the first one to admit that their current situation isn't _ideal_ , but they've made the best home they can. It's a little structurally askew but it's filled with memories and love.

"Like I said, just something to mull over. I inherited a big house but it's weird with just me living in it so I've taken to sleeping in my office at the Sheriff's station. It'd be nice to fill it up."

Stiles makes a kind of wounded noise and scrunches up his face. "That's not fair, now all I'm doing is picturing you on an uncomfortable couch, using your Sheriff's jacket as a blanket and eating cereal out of a coffee mug."

The Sheriff lets slip a little grin and says, "The way I understand it, emotional blackmail is the right of every parent."

"Ugh."

"I've got a lot of catching up to do on that front."

"Double ugh," Stiles says feelingly.

"Goes both ways, y'know. I think you're in deficit a whole lot of Christmas and birthday presents, plus borrowing the car."

"Can I borrow the car?" Stiles asks immediately and the Sheriff just blinks at him impassively. "That's a no, right? I'm learning your face still."

"Borrow Derek's car."

"You'd let me drive the Camaro? I would think part of your parental duties is banning me from getting behind the wheel of anything cool."

"A Camaro? He has a nice, practical Toyota," the Sheriff says and drops his chin, expression gone interrogative. " _Doesn't_ he?"

"Um, yes?" Stiles tries, because he forgot for a second that when Derek wants to appear non-threatening and family-oriented he leaves the sexy car at home and borrows the Toyota from god knows where. 

"You've got your mother's jeep, don't you?" the Sheriff asks, thankfully dropping that line of questioning and his eyes softening. "Can't believe that thing still runs, it was a death trap then, it can only be more of a death trap now."

"It's been running better lately. I think maybe Derek has been sneaking over and doing repairs on the sly."

Stiles hears, _ha, busted!_ chirruped gleefully from the living room and then a thump and an accompanying squawk and shakes his head, snorting.

"I don't think anyone's probably told you this enough but you've done good, kid."

Stiles feels warm all over and blinks against prickling eyes again. He hates how weepy he's gotten lately. "What's wrong with you?" Lydia asks, coming into the kitchen and Stiles hastily wipes at his face with his forearm and pokes his tongue out at her.

"Nothing. Allergies."

"Pah!" Lydia snorts, disbelieving.

"You too," the Sheriff says to her and when Lydia gives him a puzzled look, he points a chopping knife in the direction of the living room. "You've both done an amazing job with those kids."

"Thank you," Lydia says, voice a little choked and cheeks going rosy. "I mean, none of them are dead despite their best efforts so I give us an A plus."

"A _plus_ plus," Stiles agrees, nodding vigorously.

"Gold stars and smiley stickers all around," the Sheriff laughs and there's the sound of tiny feet running and then Malia skids into the room, arms up and hands making grabby motions on the air.

"Stickers!"

"Hon, no one really has-" Stiles starts to say but cuts himself off when he watches the Sheriff pull a paper strip from one pocket and hand it over. 

"They're scratch and sniff," the Sheriff says and Malia's eyes go wide. She very reverentially pulls the strip to her face, scratches carefully with one popped claw at what Stiles can see is a cartoon strawberry wearing a fedora and then beams widely and scampers back out of the room, crowing, "Look what Granpop gave meeeee!"

"How did you do that?" Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Like the Boy Scouts say, _always be prepared_ ," the Sheriff says with a wink.

"What else have you got in your pockets?" Lydia asks, intrigued.

"Stuff and things," the Sheriff says, waggling his eyebrows. 

"There better be food soon because Malia's chewing on the couch and Isaac and Erica are starting to look like they're tempted to try it," Scott reports, coming into the kitchen.


	26. Chapter 26

There are only two times when their house is quiet. When everyone's asleep and when everyone's completely involved in eating. There's only the gentle clink of cutlery against plates and food being devoured to be heard and Stiles shoots Derek a grateful look across the table, because he'd made this happen.

Derek ducks his face, but Stiles sees his blush and grin before he manages to tuck his chin into his chest. 

It lasts a whole blissful twenty minutes before Isaac and Erica get into a fight about the last turkey leg. As their name-calling devolves into a slap fight, Stiles sees the guilty way the Sheriff looks down at the other turkey leg on his own plate and says, "Nuh-uh, don't even think about it."

"If it would avert World War Three," the Sheriff starts to argue and Stiles shakes his head sternly. 

"You got _that_ turkey leg fair and square. No givsy-backsies just because these two are being obnoxious."

The fight is over when Isaac tugs Erica's shirt collar out from her neck to throw mashed potato down her top and then screeches, "When did you start wearing a _bra_?"

"You're so embarrassing!" she shrieks and pushes back from the table to run dramatically from the room. There's the sound of a door slamming upstairs and then Isaac looks at everyone staring at him as he plops the turkey leg on his own plate in triumph. He frowns and says, "What?"

"You _know_ what," Lydia says, pointing upstairs and Isaac just blinks at her for a moment before he also pushes back from the table with a very heartfelt and teenage, "Ugh," and stomps upstairs, the turkey leg carried in front of him on a bread plate as a peace offering.

"Can I have a bra?" Malia asks in the ensuing silence.

"Got one of those in your pocket, granpop?" Stiles asks the Sheriff.

"Oh my god," Derek groans, smacking a hand to his face.

"Do you Granpop?" Malia asks, excited.

"Why?" the Sheriff directs at Stiles, aggrieved.

"You don't need a bra, Malia," Lydia says.

"You don't even know what a bra is," Scott intones, not even pausing in his chewing which is a feat Stiles is horrified by and admires at the same time.

"I do! It's for boobies."

"Oh my _god_ ," Derek repeats.

After lunch, Stiles is in the kitchen stacking plates and wondering how long he can leave the washing up before it becomes a bio-hazard when Derek comes in and tugs him back out to the living room. Stiles stops when he sees what Derek's interrupted him for, the Sheriff fast asleep on the couch with Malia lying sprawled across his chest, also dead to the world.

"Thank goodness for turkey comas," Stiles says. Lydia's also asleep, curled on the other chair, one heeled shoe on and one having dropped to the floor. Stiles watches them for a few moments, but then turns into Derek and says in a low voice, "Hey, are the rest of the kids asleep?"

Derek cocks his head for a second like a dog listening which is something that will never stop being hilarious to Stiles, and then nods. Stiles grins, gives him a thumbs up and then grabs Derek's wrist and tugs him towards the stairs.

"What are we doing?" Derek asks, looking puzzled.

"We're hopping off the PG-thirteen train this relationship has been stuck on," Stiles says gleefully, but _quietly_ and then almost falls back down the stairs, ruining his efforts at being stealthy when Derek and Derek's arm Stiles is attached to stop dead below him.

"What?" Derek blurts in a normal, startled-sounding volume, too loud in the quiet house. Stiles winces and freezes for a moment, but there's no other sound and he relaxes by increments.

"C'mon," he hisses, tugging on Derek again.

"Stiles-" Derek starts, still at normal volume and Stiles smacks a hand over Derek's mouth.

"I swear," Stiles continues in a low, desperate tone. "If you wake someone up right now and ruin this I'll... I'll... do something horrible to you that obviously won't involve physical harm because you're much stronger than me but it will be _epic_."

Derek huffs a warm, moist breath against Stiles' hand and he takes it away very slowly, Derek giving him impatient eyes all the while. "We're not-" Derek starts again, still too loud and at Stiles putting a finger to his own lips and glaring mightily, he rolls his eyes. "We're not doing anything with your _dad_ in the house," Derek finishes in a harsh whisper.

"Not if you _wake him up_."

"Stiles-"

"Just, can we take this upstairs?" At Derek's raised eyebrow, Stiles amends, "This argument, okay? Just this argument."

Derek looks dubious, but he also allows Stiles to circle his wrist again with thumb and forefinger and he follows this time when Stiles tugs. Stiles steers them around the squeaky step one from the top and then skirts the floorboard that moans like it's in the process of dying when you step on it just outside of his bedroom and shoves Derek through the door, or at least tries to. He basically pushes on Derek's chest, Derek looks down at his hands, back up at Stiles and then steps through.

"The door is closed," Stiles says, pushing it shut carefully, "Everyone's asleep and my balls have been blue for what feels like months so we're doing this." Stiles reaches for his belt and Derek grabs his hands, arresting the movement.

"No, we're not," Derek insists, doing Stiles' belt back up again with deft hands. Since Stiles' hands are free, he reaches instead for Derek's belt and Derek hops backwards like he's avoiding a baseball swing to the junk.

"C'mon," Stiles whines, tugging his hands through his hair in frustration. 

"I know you'll probably think it's dumb but I want it, our first time, to be special, or, y'know, for us to be alone at least."

"Derek, Derek, Derek," Stiles tutts, shaking his head. "Don't you get it by now?"

"What?" Derek asks, frowning.

"You're a part of this family now, which means you will never be alone, ever again." Stiles means for it to be funny, a joke, but Derek's eyes go dark and his mouth hinges open and then he's _moving_ , driving Stiles backwards and down onto his bed and snuffling all over his face, his neck, making this kind of almost growly purr as he does it.

"We still have to be quiet," Stiles protests while honest-to-god giggling. Derek immediately freezes and backs off, hunched and embarrassed and Stiles makes grabby hands at him. "Noooo, come back here."

"Stiles," Derek groans, sounding pained, sitting on his heels on the end of Stiles' bed and looking down at him like he's the best and worst thing that has ever happened to him.

"Okay, maybe we don't have to have the main event. What about a compromise, a little amuse bouche to future carnal activities?"

"What are you proposing?" Derek asks haltingly, like he's considering it despite himself.

"Well," Stiles says, getting up and shuffling them around until Derek is the one on his back and Stiles is hovering over him. "I mean," he continues, hands going to Derek's belt, pausing until he receives the tiniest nod from Derek. "We could..." Stiles tugs free Derek's belt and doesn't groan at the way Derek lifts his hips so easily when he does that but it's a near thing. He's got Derek's pants opened and parted and-

"What?" Derek asks as Stiles pauses.

"Um, no, nothing."

"What?" Derek insists, curling up.

"I just, I don't know why I was expecting, uh..."

" _What?_ " Derek repeats, a little bit too loud now.

Stiles says, "Shh, geez. It's just, not what I was expecting."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Derek asks and then must notice that Stiles' expression is amused and he scowls, the mightiest of all scowls, a scowl to rule them all. "What are you _smirking_ at... oh this isn't about those terrible teen wolf romance novels is it? I'm perfectly normal down there, all werewolves are."

"No, no, it's not that," Stiles says and then snaps the frankly ancient elastic of Derek's shapeless, grey cotton boxer shorts. 

"Fuck you," Derek says, letting his head thump back onto the bed. "I was expecting today to consist of eating and being terrified of your dad. I _wasn't_ expecting anything else."

"You mean you would have dressed up for me if you'd known?" Stiles asks, doing a pleased little wiggle and Derek tries to turn over to hide his face in Stiles' pillow but Stiles doesn't let him, reaching over to grab Derek by the biceps and pin him in place. He knows Derek would be able to throw him off pretty damn easily but he doesn't, going still and pliant under Stiles' grip. 

"Frankly, I'm relieved," Stiles says.

"Why?"

Stiles sits back up again, thumbs open the button and flies of his own pants and peels them aside enough that Derek can see-

"Do you have pandas wearing party hats on your underwear?"

"Shut up, they're festive and I'm just proving to you that this was not all some nefarious plot. I did not plan this. If I did, I'd be wearing the date underwear."

"You have _date_ underwear?" Derek asks, incredulous and possibly a little pissy which is completely charming.

"Not anymore," Stiles says and waggles his eyebrows. Derek groans and tries to put his own hand over Stiles' mouth this time, most likely to stop Stiles saying, "Now I have _Derek_ underwear."

"I'm going to yell for your dad. I think him kicking this door in and pulling my spine out through my face would be less painful than this."

"Oh, I don't know. I think you should maybe rethink your plan," Stiles says, slinking down Derek's body, hands trailing his lips and Derek makes this punched out, almost hurt noise. Stiles reaches up and pushes three fingers into Derek's mouth. "Quiet Der bear," he croons.

Stiles is stymied for a moment because Derek's still tucked behind his underwear, although his cock is definitely making a bid for freedom on its own, but he only has one hand free and he's loathe to take his other one away from Derek considering the kind of pornographic laving his fingers are getting. Stiles is a pseudo-parent though and used to juggling more with less hands free and manages to get Derek out and free and into his mouth without too much further awkward fumbling.

He's glad for the fingers he left in Derek's mouth because Derek practically shouts around them when Stiles goes down and Stiles must have not been the only one with the bluest of balls because it's not very long before Derek is pawing desperately at his head like he's trying to be a gentleman and warn Stiles he's about to come.

Stiles just looks up Derek's body, grins around his girth and sucks harder and he feels the points of Derek's fangs on his fingers as Derek comes with a guttural growl that vibrates through Stiles' hand and all the way up his arm. Derek doesn't bite down which Stiles is both grateful for and awed by. He'd come just from the trust and control that showed, except that Derek is tugging Stiles up his body, manhandling him until he can get at his face to lick and mouth at him, fangs now thankfully tucked away again.

Stiles rubs off shamelessly against the sharp cut of Derek's hip and he's coming moments later, a vivid splash across Derek's belly. Derek lets out this contented, sated burble of sound and pats at Stiles' shoulders like he's congratulating him on a job well done which Stiles thinks is well deserved.

"Holy cow," Stiles breathes into Derek's cheek.

"Moo," Derek says nonsensically and Stiles hoots with laughter, giddy and slightly come-drunk.

"I think that was the perfect crime. No one woke up."

"Except every were in the house will be able to smell it as soon as they do," Derek says. "God, Stiles, why can't I make better decisions around you?" 

"My dad has gotta know we're doing it," Stiles says.

"We don't have to rub his nose in it, and don't say _doing it_ , you sound like an after school special."

"Most people are happy after an orgasm," Stiles says, picking his head up so he can squint at Derek disparagingly. 

They must sleeps for a little while because the light is different through Stiles' bedroom window between one blink and the next. Stiles yawns hugely and pokes Derek in the bicep, intrigued by the way the muscle jumps under his fingers. He pokes again and Derek smacks at his hand.

"Stiles, I seriously-" Derek's voice cuts off and a frown-line appears between his brows.

"Uh-oh, is my dad-" Derek stops Stiles talking not by just holding his mouth but by putting a whole hand over his face. "Rude," Stiles snorts, muffled.

"Quiet a sec," Derek says. "I think I hear..."

Except Stiles catches it then too, a far-off sounding scream that he could swear is his name.

Stiles isn't sure if it's the work of adrenaline or the fact that he was closer to wearing pants, but he manages to get downstairs before Derek. He sees out of the corner of his eye his dad getting up and Lydia rubbing her face and looking around with a frown. Stiles hits the front porch and see Mrs Hallingsworth waving at them frantically from across the road.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?" Stiles calls, slowing to a trot as he approaches her. She looks flushed and agitated but otherwise okay.

"He took... he took her," she gasps, putting a hand to her chest and then waving it up the street.

"Who took what?" Stiles asks, coming to a stop at the curb and holding out a hand to take Mrs Hallingsworth's.

"Malia! She was playing in your front yard and a man _took_ her."

"What?" Stiles blurts, fear dumping through his system like cold water down his spine. He notices then that Derek isn't with him and turns to see Derek had stopped in their yard and that he's helping Isaac up who's cradling a bleeding face. 

Stiles darts back across the road and as soon as he's there Isaac's babbling, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I tried to stop him." The skin above Isaac's eye is split and blood, bright and garish, is down his cheek, neck and coating the front of his shirt. 

"Hey, no, hon, it's not your fault," Stiles says, reaching out and gripping Isaac, pulling him into chest, feeling Isaac shudder against him. "It was Peter, right?"

"Uhuh," Isaac says, voice muffled against Stiles' shoulder.

"I'll fucking kill him," Stiles growls, then he notices his dad outside with them on his phone and hands Isaac off to Lydia. "Who are you calling?"

"The WPA," his dad says, eyebrows drawn down and then only gets out, "Yes, hello, I need to report-" when Stiles snatches the phone from him. "Stiles, what-?"

"No! They'll take them away," Stiles implores.

"What are you talking about?"

"They'll take them away from us again. I can't... I can't lose these kids again."

"Stiles," his dad says and suddenly his voice is gentle, his hands up and out like he's handling a wounded animal, and that's how Stiles feels right at that moment. So very, very wounded. " _No one_ can take these kids from you, ever again. You know that, right?"

"They'll think we weren't looking after her properly. They'll-"

"Stiles, geez kiddo," the Sheriff says, wrapping a hand around the back of Stiles' neck and squeezing. 

"He won't have gotten far and I know all his usual haunts, his hidey holes," Derek says.

"See if you can track him down but don't _do_ anything," the Sheriff says, pointing a stern finger at Derek's nose.

"Take Scott with you," Stiles says and Scott, who has just come down the front stairs, blinks at him.

"Seriously?"

"Scott's a good tracker and he's strong," Stiles says to Derek and Scott nods, takes a second to hug Stiles fiercly and then trails Derek to his truck.

"I can-" Isaac starts to volunteer, flailing a hand after them but Stiles shakes his head firmly.

" _You_ can go and put some ice on your face. It hurts me just looking at you."

"I'll be fine in a few minutes," Isaac protests, but he lets Lydia tug him back into the house.

The Sheriff holds his hand back out for his phone. "The WPA might have seemed all bureaucratic when you were petitioning for custody, but Peter's gone against their ruling now. They take any breaches seriously and they don't mess around."

"What if...?"

"Do you trust me?"

Stiles looks his dad in the eyes for a few moments before he nods and hands the phone over.


	27. Chapter 27

"-it's sincerest apologies."

Stiles nods, only half-listening to Yukimura, most of his attention alternating between the door and his phone. He was hoping to get either a call, or better yet, have Derek and Scott burst through their front door with Malia held aloft triumphant. He hadn't heard anything in three hours and it's driving him crazy. His dad had taken Isaac to get checked out properly by Deaton and Erica had gone with them, leaving Stiles and Lydia at home, feeling useless and human.

He'd been surprised that Yukimura herself was the one to turn up on their doorstep, looking as muted and professional as always, when his dad had put the call in to the WLED before he'd left. There was still a small, terrified part of Stiles waiting for someone to use this as _proof_ that he and Lydia couldn't look after their kids and be stripped of them. His dad had asked him to trust that that wouldn't happen and he was trying, he really was, but he'd been living with the fear of losing them since he was fourteen and it was hard to let go of.

"Frankly, we're to blame. We should have seen this coming and had an agent on you."

"Sorry, what?" Stiles asks, finally tuning back into Yukimura who is sitting opposite him, nursing the green tea Lydia had made her in a fit of restless hospitality.

"When custody battles don't go the way someone is expecting this can happen, especially when we're dealing with a werewolf with Mr Hale's... reputation."

"Wait, you guys were ready to hand Malia over to him and you knew what he was like?"

Yukimura's face does something, tightens a little, a micro-expression of discomfort that Stiles would probably miss if he wasn't watching her so intently. "Werewolves do not necessarily see custody the same way humans would, they do not take the same kinds of things into account. If Peter's claim had not been refuted, it would not matter that he was, uh, for lack of a better term, _shady_."

"That's a polite way of putting it," Stiles snorts and Yukimura sighs. 

"I just want you to know that I agree with you on many of your points about blended families. Someone like myself who is seen as _non-traditional_ would have as much trouble as you did."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience?"

Yukimura nods, glances around as if to check they're alone and leans forward. "My husband is a human, my daughter is... not. I worry what might occur if something happened to me."

"You have a daughter?" Stiles asks, surprised. Of course, it shouldn't have been a shock that Yukimura might have a life outside of kicking ass and looking cool as a cucumber while doing it. If he'd run into Derek on the street, he wouldn't have known the guy liked those terrible _Housewives of_ shows and could solve a Rubik’s Cube with his feet.

"Yes, Kira. She's Scott's age. I'd actually been thinking about asking you if I could bring her around, we're new to the city and she doesn't have any friends yet and I think it would be good for her to be with people her own age and not have to _hang out_ with her boring old parents all the time."

"You'd want her to hang out, here, with _my_ kids?" Stiles asks, blinking in surprise.

"Yes," Yukimura confirms simply with a half shrug. "Back to the issue at hand though, I want you to be rest assured that Hale will not be able to leave the city with Malia. He'll have gone to ground but he won't be able to flee with her. We have the city pretty well warded."

"Isn't there ways around wards though?" Stiles asks, looking up at where his mother's had been destroyed simply by Derek ripping into the door lintel and taking the power item out. Yukimura follows his gaze and her lips quirk up. 

"No simple way. It'll take him time of which he doesn't have. The WLED have the best trackers in the country. I'm actually surprised it's taken-" Yukimura is interrupted by her phone pinging and she pulls it out, waggles it as if to say, _see what I mean_. She turns it back towards herself, unlocks the screen and then says, "Oh."

"Oh? That doesn't sound like a good _oh_."

"They haven't found him yet, but they will," Yukimura says but the tightness is back in her expression and Stiles stands, wipes his hands off on his jeans and makes for the door.

"Peter strikes me as a monster with an exit strategy. He's probably already halfway to Mongolia and we're just sitting-" Stiles yanks open the front door and stops dead.

Malia is standing in front of him. 

"Oh my god!" Stiles exclaims, reaching down for her. She leaps into his arms with a yip and Stiles doesn't even feel it when her claws dig into his arms, leaving bloody welts or that one of the twigs in her hair nicks him under the eye. He just clutches her to him as tight as he possibly can, knowing it doesn't matter how tightly he squeezes her, that she can take it. He faintly hears his phone ringing from his pocket, the sound of Lydia's going off deeper in the house and Yukimura's a few seconds later.

"The poop face man wouldn't bring me home," Malia says with a frown when Stiles gathers himself enough that he can pull her back and look at her properly. She has a black streak across one cheek and what looks like gravel rash across her temple that's already healing. There's sticks and leaves in her hair and her clothes are torn like she had to tug herself through something sharp and jagged, like maybe a broken car window. 

"How did...?" Stiles trails off, not sure how to finish the sentence. At that moment Lydia appears behind him and Malia wiggles until she's handed over, Lydia clutching Malia to her probably as tightly as Stiles did. 

Yukimura clears her throat behind them. She's holding her phone, listening to someone on the other end and then says, "They found Hale's car overturned on a back road close to the city limits. There was a lot of blood but no bodies and it had looked like a wild animal had attacked the interior of the car which is why local police called it in to the WLED."

"Did you kick Peter's ass?" Stiles blurts out.

"Stiles!" Lydia hisses, but then a moment later she also looks at Malia in her arms and asks, "Did you?"

"He wouldn't bring me home," Malia repeats, her mouth set in a stubborn little line, that wobbles after a beat and she asks in a small voice, "Am I in trouble?"

"Absolutely not," Stiles says, ruffling a hand through Malia's hair. "If anyone tries to take you on a trip without clear and concise consent, you have complete permission to kick their asses."

"You said ass _twice_ ," Malia says, eyes round. 

"Someone should ring Derek and Scott," Lydia says.

"Shi... I mean sugar, yeah," Stiles says, figuring one swear word a day will be enough for Malia. He fumbles his phone out of his back pocket and then almost drops it when it rings in his hand, Derek's name flashing at him. "Hey, hi! We were just going to-"

"We found Peter's car, Stiles!" Derek says, voice sounding funny, like he's running. "We're tracking him, I think he's on foot."

"Malia's here," Stiles says and there's the sound of Scott tinnily in the background blurting out, "What?"

"She's there?" Derek demands, voice now normal and Stiles can hear both of them breathing on the other end, like Scott's crowded in next to Derek to listen. 

"She just turned up. I think maybe she caused him to run off the road and then she took off, found her own way home. She's one tough cookie." Malia grins at Stiles from Lydia's arms when he says that, looking pleased.

"We should probably still try to find Peter. If he gets away now, he'll just come back." Derek's tone is clearly indecisive, like he's torn between following Peter and rushing back to them.

"Mrs Yukimura is here, she said she'll put an agent on us now they know there's a threat." Stiles looks to Yukimura who gives him a thumbs' up and a nod.

"He's close, I know it," Derek says, the hint of a growl under his voice.

"Derek, come home," Stiles says, knowing through and through that that is what he wants, what they _need_ right now. He doesn't want Derek ripping Peter's head off, even though that's a nice thought. Instead he wants his family all where he can see them, Derek very much included. 

"Home?" Derek repeats, voice sounding a little watery and then there's a choked-off yelp when Scott starts to say, "Oh my god, are you crying-?"

"Sap," Stiles says, feeling a little like crying himself.

** Twelve and a bit months later **

"Uh, um, uh," Stiles manages intelligently when Derek walks into the room, tugging self-consciously at his new Beacon Hills deputy's uniform.

"Great, I look that ridiculous, huh? I knew this was a bad idea."

"No, noooo, ridiculous is not the word I'd use," Stiles says, waving Derek off, but then thinking better of it when Derek starts unbuttoning the uniform shirt he's got on because Stiles has had very _vivid_ fantasies that start like this. "I mean, it looks great, but don't let me stop you stripping out of it."

"Stiles," Derek says, sounding aggrieved. "Please don't make this porny. I can't be smelling like arousal every time I put this uniform on, especially when I'll be surrounded by werewolves most of the time."

"Sorry, too late. Already got the _bow-chicka-bow-wow_ music track playing in my head," Stiles says, reaching forward to tug Derek into him by his gun belt.

 _Gun belt_. How is he not supposed to have this devolve into porn when Derek now has a _gun belt_?

"Surrounded. By. Werewolves," Derek repeats, but he's not really resisting Stiles' pull. 

"How about you picture me in that exact same uniform to cool your jets?" his dad yells from outside their bedroom.

"O-kay, that did it," Stiles says, releasing Derek and stepping away. "Ruined forever."

"Good," the Sheriff says, poking his head through the door. "Cause I really _never_ want to walk in on that."

"Perhaps you could knock and then you wouldn't walk in on anything."

"I could hear you from outside."

"Ugh, werewolves," Stiles groans, his turn to be aggrieved.

"Like Derek said, you're surrounded and all of them-" the Sherriff's attention swings to Derek and his eyes narrow, "-are very _protective_ of the Sheriff's children."

"You cannot threaten my husband when he wants to sex me up, because he's, y'know, my _husband_ ," Stiles says, flipping his dad off with his ring finger that has a plain silver band on it.

"Can't you have a nice, sixties style sitcom marriage where you sleep in separate beds and wear full-length flannel pajamas to sleep?" his dad asks, not looking very hopeful. "Or at least act like that's the way it is when you're around me?"

"Don't you want us to have an open and honest relationship?"

"There are boundaries, Stiles. Please don't pole-vault over them like you do everything else."

"You like my boundary jumping."

"I like you in general," the Sheriff agrees jovially and Stiles beams at him. "So, you nervous about tomorrow?"

"Me? Nervous about cooking Christmas dinner for the first time for your entire pack? Why would I be nervous?" Derek reaches out and squeezes the nape of Stiles' neck, which tells him that they heard the way his voice went all squeaky and tremulous at the end of that sentence, even though he tried to cover it up by clearing his throat.

"Stiles, it's your pack now too. You're their emissary. You could serve them up burnt toast and they'd love it," Derek offers, trying to be reassuring.

"Phew, that's a relief because that was what I was planning on making. Burnt toast."

"You'll be fine, your pack-" his dad starts to say and Stiles interrupts with, "I'm not even sure I want to be _in_ this pack."

"What?" his dad asks, eyes going wide, but before he can get too upset, Stiles waves an airy hand.

"Y'know, since it has _Jackson_ in it."

"Stiles," his dad groans, deflating from his worry. 

"I've really gotta question your entry criteria."

"Lydia asked. I said yes. That was my whole criteria. In case you haven't noticed, I'm still in that place where I find it hard to say no to my kids about anything," the Sheriff says, eyes darting quickly and pointedly to Derek.

"I think Derek _earned_ his spot. Jackson just kind of... douche-bro'd into it."

"What have you got against Jackson in particular?" the Sheriff asks, folding his arms and trying to look patient. 

"I don't know, nothing _in particular_ I guess. Just his whole oeuvre of affectation bugs me. He's like if a frat became a person."

"I thought you'd want him in the pack considering you outrank him."

"I what now?"

"As emissary of the Stilinski pack, you outrank Jackson."

"I do? Seriously? I mean, this _maybe_ makes him a little more palatable. Can I make him do stuff?"

"Like what?" the Sheriff asks slowly, expression one that says he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

"I don't know, like..." Stiles taps his chin contemplatively. "Make him wear a helmet?"

"Why does a werewolf need to wear a helmet?"

"To sort out that oblongular head he's got going on. Maybe wearing a helmet for a few months will give him a more pleasing, spherical head shape."

"Oblongular isn't a word," Derek says, which is not a _no_ Stiles will argue later.

"It should be. Rectangular just doesn't communicate the blockishness of his head adequately."

"Stiles, as emissary you're responsible for the welfare of your pack members, not in charge of torturing them for fun," the Sheriff says.

"Can't it be both?" Stiles complains, feeling ripped off. What's the point of outranking Jackson if he can't make him do embarrassing stuff? "I'm really worried someone's going to cut themselves on the sharp angles of his head."

"Got the turkey fryer!" Felix, another of BH's finest and one of his dad's first pack members announces, bustling through the door.

"What is _that_?" Stiles exclaims, horrified.

"You guys missed Thanksgiving this year because of the big move, so we figured we'd save the deep fried turkey for Christmas," Felix says, plunking down a giant metal monstrosity at his feet that looks like a pressure cooker from hell.

"We are _not_ having fried turkey," Stiles denies.

"But... fried turkey is delicious," Felix protests.

"I'm not starting out as emissary by giving everyone heart disease."

"It's fine, Stiles, we'll be fine. We're werewolves," his dad says.

"Really? I want everyone to get a physical before I serve up anything cooked completely in grease. I've been reading studies and there's still no absolute proof that werewolves can't have high cholesterol."

"Oh my god," the Sheriff groans, sounding pained.

"The _baked_ turkey I make you will be just as delicious and will be accompanied by lots of yummy vegetables _without_ marshmallows. Be thankful I'm not making you guys eat tofu."

"Can we throw Stiles out of the pack?" Derek asks the Sheriff, who snorts.

"Hey!"

"I'm mostly kidding," Derek says, but tugs Stiles into his side.

"Save us from Stiles _saving_ us," the Sheriff pleads to the sky.

"Don't front, I know you like my fussing," Stiles says, waving the Sheriff off and he smiles, this kind of nice, indulgent smile that has Stiles feel warm all the way down to his toes.

"I love it, kiddo," he says and Stiles hides his pleased, burning face in Derek's shoulder.

"When are Boyd and Alicia arriving?" Derek asks, jostling Stiles.

"They're driving in with Parrish this afternoon, should get here about three o'clock."

"Does _he_ have to come?" Derek asks, pouting mightily.

"Parrish isn't a threat to you boo, especially since he's been boning Felix here for the last six months."

"What?" Derek and the Sheriff both exclaim at the same time as Felix blushes cherry red and beats a hasty retreat.

"I wonder who wears the handcuffs in that relationship?" Stiles muses, waggling his eyebrows. 

"Pole vaulting, Stiles! You are pole vaulting!" the Sheriff protests.

Lydia bursts through the door then, waving a large envelope. "It came!"

"Seriously?" Stiles says, leaping forward and trying to snatch the envelope out of her hand but Lydia smacks him away with it.

"What's that?" Derek asks, watching on amused as Stiles and Lydia squabble over who gets to open it.

"Give me that before you hurt each other," the Sheriff says, deftly swiping the envelope from the both of them. "Is this what I think it is?"

"We'd know if you'd open it!" Stiles protests, but knows better than to try and steal the envelope from his father.

"Will someone tell me what's going on since I appear to the be the only one that doesn't know?" Derek asks, obviously starting to feel a little peeved.

"We wanted to make everything official with the kids, not just with the WLED but on the human side too," Lydia says and makes impatient grabby hands at the papers the Sheriff pulls out of the envelope. He hands them over with a chuckle and she quickly flicks through them and then turns shiny eyes on Stiles. "It's official."

"They're ours?" Stiles says and then sweeps up Lydia in a massive hug.

"They were already yours, you know?" the Sheriff says, but he sounds the tiniest bit choked up.

"Wait, are you talking adoption? For the kids?" Derek asks.

"Yeah, they're ours in every way possible now," Stiles says, reading over the papers himself.

"That's great. I'm really happy for you," Derek says.

" _Us_ , big guy. Happy for _us_."

"What?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and hands over the papers. Derek just blinks at him, before he focuses on the paperwork in his hands and the _three_ names that have legal guardianship of Scott, Isaac, Erica and Malia. 

"How... when...?" Derek boggles, cheeks flushing and eyes going suspiciously watery.

"The process for a blended family like ours is a little different but the WLED smoothed the way for us and agreed that adding you would include some much needed stability to our little family. Plus, y'know, you're legally tied to _me_ already so I figured it was only fitting that I lump you with the rest of the brood."

Derek is still fish-mouthing at Stiles when Lydia clears her throat, takes the paperwork out of his now limp fingers and herds the Sheriff out of the room, saying, "I think something gross is about to happen that neither of us want to witness."

"I'm... they're..." Derek still seems to be lost for words, but then he reaches out and drags Stiles into himself, holding him close and breathing into his hair. 

"I know most guys have nine months to get used to the idea of being a parent but I figured you were pretty much doing it already and I _guess_ the kids are used to you being around and would be bummed if you... left."

"I'm not going anywhere, Stiles, even if you didn't... do this. You know that right?"

"I guess I just wanted to... be sure?"

"Jesus, we're _married_ Stiles. I said forever and I meant it. I appreciate this but it wasn't necessary."

"It kinda was. I just wanted to be sure that you knew _you_ were necessary, to us. That as much as we're yours, you're ours."

"I do," Derek says, pulling back only far enough to kiss Stiles as thoroughly as he can. Stiles feels a little tingly afterwards. "A million times, even if I have to say it every day for the rest of our lives so you can get it through that thick skull of yours, _I do_."

"I like that sound of that," Stiles says.

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is probably closer to supernatural Shameless than Party of Five but there is absolutely no prior knowledge of either show needed for this.
> 
> \- Here I am on [my tumblr](http://kellifer-k.tumblr.com/) first - come say hi!


End file.
